


The Judas Kiss

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward physical contact, BLARGH, Betrayal, Character Death, Dark elements, Dubious Consent, Forced Bonding, I should also warn you, M/M, McCoy just assumes he is and is doing his best to accommodate him, Mirror Universe, Sexual Slavery, ambiguously requited love, bond fic, bond negotiations, dubious characterization, for my ace readership be aware TOS Spock isn’t actually ace, it refused to cooperate in midstream, maybe it would’ve been better if it stayed a PWP, possibly crack fic, real universe, there are giant sentient millipedes in this thing, this was supposed to be a cracky PWP, where Mirror Spock forced Real McCoy and Real Spock to have public sex in exchange for freedom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: When Mirror Spock prevents Doctor McCoy from returning to the original universe with his fellows, Spock travels to the mirror universe to retrieve him, and they are caught up in a Machiavellian web of intrigue and deceit that follows them home.In LOTR fandom, they say every Frodo/Samwise writer has one Valinor fic in there somewhere, and that it WILL eventually come out.  They also say the same thing about Legolas/Gimli writers and frottage-on-horseback fics.  In Trek fandom, I guess the equivalent “every writer has one” fic  has got to be a Mirror Universe fic.  Only problem is, I’ve got about ten thousand ridiculous Mirror Universe ideas penned up in the plotbunny hutch, and I guess it’s inevitable that every so often, one of them will manage to convince me to allow it to slither and lurch its way out of the midden and into the light.  This is one such fic.





	The Judas Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This is paced and laid out sort of like a ST:TOS episode-- maybe a two-parter. Do me a favor and remember that among other things, ST:TOS canon actually contains the following highly ridiculous, horrible, implausible things:
> 
> 1\. A giant green space hand belonging to the god Apollo grabbing the Enterprise  
> 2\. Kirk fixes a planetary war by reciting the Pledge of Allegiance  
> 3\. A woman in a castle who turns into a cat and threatens everybody with a magic wand  
> 4\. Spock flamenco dancing over Kirk's head with intent to kill him via… tap shoes?  
> 5\. Spock in a toga singing a paean to the preservation of female virginity  
> 6\. McCoy chasing a giant Alice in Wonderland rabbit/the black knight  
> 7\. Unicorn Dog (‘nuff said)  
> 8\. An interactive plant named Gertrude that is actually just some guy’s hand stuck in a glove with green and pink frills all over it  
> 9\. Spock without a brain being driven by remote control like a toy car  
> 10\. Spock in the midst of open brain surgery, instructing McCoy how to surgically reattach his own brain  
> 11\. Wearing black eyeliner and being lit from below means you are evil  
> 12\. Spock beaming happily at some bizarro singing flowers

Spock checked his equipment for an entirely illogical third time as he stood atop the transporter, waiting for the optimum phase window for beam-out. Kirk paced the floor between the console and the platform, threatening to wear a groove in the carpeting. His jaw set in a grim line as he lifted his head to regard his first officer.

“I still wish you weren’t going alone. You haven’t been there, Spock. You don’t know what it’s like.” Kirk’s voice snapped like a whip, sharp with frustration.

“I am the logical choice, captain. I can easily overpower most individuals aboard the Enterprise. And I am the most likely to be able to reason successfully with my counterpart.”

“I still wish I were going with you.” Kirk clenched his fists with frustration.

“We’re burning a great deal of power since we aren’t exchanging man for man and beaming at the same moment this time. We’ve only enough at the moment to move two,” Scott fretted. “I could send you with Mr. Spock, Captain, but come time for retrieval, we’d be in the same position we are now—one of you left behind!”

“I’m aware of that, Scotty.” Kirk snapped, brusque, as he started pacing again.

Spock disregarded the tension, running another quick mental inventory of his gear: tricorder, emergency medical kit, a suit of slimline body armor, phaser, extra battery packs, rare metals and gemstones for barter, a knife hidden in each boot, a homing beacon… if he packed any more, it would compromise his ability to move quickly. He had reason to move decisively; he did not intend for his errand to fail.

“They’re dangerous, Spock. Ruthless, savage.” Kirk gave him a sharp, worried look. “Your counterpart used his agonizer on a crewman for only an accidental infraction.”

“I met your own counterpart,” Spock acknowledges. “I am aware of the conditions that will prevail when I arrive.” They would be far from optimal; beyond that, he could make no prediction.

“Growing your beard was a good choice.” Kirk sighed. “And we’ve replicated the uniform as closely as we can… you look just like him. Your best advantage will be surprise, Spock.”

“I will endeavor to make the most of that advantage.” Spock straightened his shoulders. 

“Damn it, I shouldn’t have left McCoy alone with him. Not even to save his life.” Kirk resumed his pacing. 

“You believed my counterpart incapacitated.”

“His skull was fractured. Bones said he would have died without medical care.”

“We can only hope that after he recovered, he expressed appropriate gratitude to the doctor.”

“He intended to exploit the doctor’s human weaknesses to learn our secrets.” Kirk slammed a fist against the pedestal of the transporter console, making Scott flinch. “Damn it, I should have ordered McCoy to leave him!”

“Questioning past decisions serves no useful point.” Spock turned his gaze calmly to Scott. “Seventeen seconds until optimum phase, Mr. Spock.”

“Bring him back, Spock.” Kirk fixed him with a tense stare. “And you come back with him.”

“Yes, Captain.” Spock nodded, curt.

*****

Fear was a particularly illogical emotion, but as he dematerialized, Spock experienced an unpleasant sinking tingle in his stomach. Staging the rescue had taken much longer than Spock preferred. He hoped McCoy had survived the necessary delay. However, he _had_ been left with Spock’s counterpart… and despite Kirk’s warnings, that gave Spock hope. 

Spock had wracked his brain over and over again, attempting to reconstruct his counterpart’s situation and analyze the logical course of action for the alternate Spock to take. The majority of his postulated scenarios predicted McCoy’s survival. McCoy was a highly trained, skilled surgeon, a useful piece on any chessboard even if personal regard did not factor into the equation. To sacrifice him for anything apart from a significant gain would be illogical.

Yes, he would be valuable, if he could be controlled. If he could not adapt…. Therein lay the greatest uncertainty. McCoy’s own stubbornness might have led to his destruction-- not just at the hands of the alternate Spock.

The limbo of transport began to resolve into solid reality, and Spock set aside his worries.

Fortunately, the transporter room was empty when Spock materialized. An intruder alert began to sound immediately, as he had no official insignia or sensors to identify himself to the ship’s computer.

Spock composed his features in his most severe expression as security guards poured into the room. He glared them down without flinching from the phasers aimed at his face.

“This response time is unacceptable. What if I had been an actual intruder? I will repeat this drill at an unexpected time in the near future, and if your response time is not halved, you will all spend time in the agony booth,” Spock snapped. 

“Commander Spock,” Lieutenant Hendorff stammered, white-faced. “We believed you were on the bridge, sir!”

“As I arranged for the purposes of this test,” he snapped. “Get out and resume your posts.” On his own ship, someone from ops would have come. In that case, the ops technician probably would have noticed an actual transport had occurred, then discovered the holes in his story. Here, only security responded to the alert and the personnel involved were fortunately either too ignorant or too thoughtless to check the equipment. 

Spock set forth with measured haste; his crew’s reports indicated the layout of the ship was essentially similar to the version of the ship with which he was familiar.

He strode through the corridors with his hands folded behind his back, keeping his expression austere. Everywhere crewmen glimpsed him and scuttled away, striving desperately to look busy. People did not make eye contact, and Spock made no effort to engage any of them in conversation. Instead he studied the landmarks Kirk had mentioned, including the Terran Empire logos emblazoned on every available surface, the golden sashes, and other subtle differences in the uniforms. Even a shielded telepath could perceive the general aura of suspicion, fear, and hate that oppressed this crew.

Spock saw few people he knew well enough to speak to, a satisfactory state of affairs. More than anyone else, Spock hoped to avoid the ISS Enterprise’s first officer-- his duplicate. He could not hope to bluff his way out of such an encounter.

The odds against running into his counterpart were fortunately quite high, as he seemed to have arrived during the ship’s day cycle and therefore the other Spock’s duties almost surely occupied him on the bridge. He would have seen the security alert cross his board, but would not become aware of the details until security made an official report-- and their assumption that Spock already knew what was going on would likely delay that.

Screams echoed up and down the corridor as he passed the agonizer booth; a young crewman writhed inside it, sweat gleaming all over his body. Spock speeded his pace to leave the screams behind, disliking the thought of McCoy trapped in this hellish facsimile of home.

Spock detoured briefly to pass the sickbay, where two orderlies and Nurse Chapel stood in the examination room, holding scalpels while bending over an unconscious crewman. The man stirred and Chapel began to cut, her pretty face almost unrecognizable behind a nasty smirk. 

He could not be certain of the group’s purpose, but it appeared extremely unlikely to increase the health and productivity of the crewman in their clutches, who lay gasping in a spreading pool of his own blood. The three were watched the monitor intently as Chapel injected the man with something from a hypospray.

“Twenty minutes,” one said.

“Ten,” Chapel snapped, and they set credit chips on the hapless man’s chest. Spock’s spine stiffened with dismay as he realized they were wagering on how soon the hapless crewman would perish.

Spock stepped just far enough inside to see Dr. McCoy seated at his desk, ignoring the betting pool. This alone assured Spock he beheld the mirror McCoy, not his own. Then the doctor lifted his head and Spock very nearly flinched; in the interim between the first transfer and this rescue attempt, the doctor had lost an eye. An angry red gash, recently healed, sliced from his forehead down through his cheek, and his eye socket was a cavernous ruin. He glared at Spock, his knuckles going white on the edge of his desk, but they were too far apart for casual conversation.

Spock felt his stomach turn; he was not normally given to squeamish responses, but he did not like to see evidence of such suffering on the doctor’s familiar features. If the McCoy native to this universe had endured such a disfiguring horror, how much worse might his own doctor have fared?

In any case, it seemed unlikely his McCoy was in sickbay. Perhaps the doctor was imprisoned in the brig.

He turned away and departed smartly, but his investigation of the security department yielded no better fruit. He conducted a brief inspection while there, viewing each prisoner in turn.

Numerous crewmen and several civilians were incarcerated, all in various states of poor health, but none of them were McCoy. “Recalibrate the security fields,” Spock snapped observing the fluctuating light levels throughout the cell block. “The crystal matrix has been corrupted; replace it. That flicker is consuming unnecessary power.” Spock departed from the security section with a mixture of relief and doubt squeezing his heart. This was taking longer than he liked; sooner or later someone would report his activities to his double.

It seemed increasingly likely an individual had taken the doctor for personal amusement. Considering who might have wanted the doctor and would also have had the necessary resources to keep him, Spock gazed toward the command deck, wondering whether to go to his own quarters or Kirk’s first. Given Marlena Moreau’s reported status as the captain’s woman, McCoy was more likely to belong to the first officer.

Spock squared his shoulders, resolving to visit his counterpart’s quarters immediately. The fluctuating availability of a transit window to his own universe weighed on his mind, seconds counting down inexorably. Soon the phase window would be firmly shut, and it would not open again for over an hour, which could prove disastrous.

Spock considered the risks and possibilities associated with his options. The last time Kirk had seen McCoy, he had been with Spock. Even if McCoy was not in the alternate Spock’s possession, the first officer would assuredly know what had been done with him. Perhaps some clue might be located in his quarters even if McCoy was not there. 

He boarded the nearest turbolift. “Officers’ quarters,” he ordered, wrapping his fist about the handle. His own quarters were located precisely where they had been, adjacent to Kirk’s and McCoy’s, and he was grateful when the door opened at once in response to his biometric scan. He stepped inside, reassured in spite of himself by the familiar warmth and soothing red light within.

“Commander.” A Vulcan in a civilian coverall rose from his computer terminal, placing his fist over his heart and extending it in a crisp salute. “I have been monitoring, as you instructed.”

Spock nodded approval, though the presence of a stranger complicated his plans. “Continue your duties for now,” he ordered, striding into his bedchamber to investigate what might be found there-- and nearly tripped over his own feet with surprise.

McCoy lay on the first officer’s bed, sprawled lazily, fast asleep. Spock drew up short, his boots rasping on the carpet. McCoy blinked himself awake at once and turned over. He was naked except for jeweled adornments-- his nipples had been pierced and each one threaded with a gold ring. A fine chain hung suspended between them. Gold winked at the tip of his penis, also, and he wore a thin but sturdy leather collar about his throat with a steel clip for a leash. The Vulcan characters engraved upon it identified him as the property of S’chn T’gai Spock.

Spock blinked down at the doctor in dismay. McCoy’s wiry body was not bruised or damaged, at least not apart from the new piercings. He seemed in good health-- but despite his slimness and his middle age, he was clearly attired as a sexual servant. 

McCoy blinked up at Spock, the sleepy softness quickly fading from his expression. Spock noted with relief that his McCoy still had both eyes intact. The doctor’s guarded expression spoke of wariness, but was still far milder than the bitter grimace on the man down in sickbay. 

Regaining full awareness swiftly, McCoy tumbled out of bed in a flurry of awkward limbs and fell to his knees before Spock.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to return so early.” His hands settled on Spock’s waist and he fawned, nuzzing his cheek against Spock’s groin.

Spock nearly yelped. Only iron self-control and the Vulcan guard in the adjacent chamber kept him from leaping away from McCoy’s lascivious touch. He stood there, blinking, as McCoy reached to his trousers and unfastened them, tugging down the zipper, his hand sliding inside the placket with unsettling expertise.

“Not now,” Spock snapped in desperation, drawing his hips back with a frantic twitch. “Clothe yourself and come with me.” He forced his clamoring brain to silence. His concerns could be better addressed following the rescue.

McCoy obeyed swiftly, without offering customary backtalk. Spock glanced at the guard, who had resumed his position in front of the computer terminal, seeming unconcerned. There was no evidence of the Tantalus Device Kirk had warned him of; it seemed the alternate Spock had not chosen to challenge his captain.

McCoy clothed himself in scanty briefs made of gold cloth and stepped into low leather boots. Spock found the outfit even more disconcerting than the doctor’s bare skin, but decided not to delay to quibble with his selection. “Come,” he said-- but the door slid open as he took his first step forward.

The alternative Spock entered. He held a phaser pointed straight at Spock’s chest, his aim unwavering as he closed and secured the door behind him. “Well done, Lovar.” He nodded to the guard.

Lovar too drew a phaser, and Spock divided his attention between his enemies, moving to position McCoy protectively behind him.

“I have been expecting a retrieval attempt,” Spock’s counterpart stated calmly. “How fortunate that you have come personally, Commander. Doctor, step away from him.”

McCoy’s gaze darted back and forth between them; wild-eyed, he stepped aside. His adam’s apple bobbed once in his throat as he swallowed.

“You should allow us to depart in order to redress the imbalance between our realities,” Spock said, weighing his adversary’s response. Meeting an extra-dimensional version of himself was intriguing. However, the odds of success had shifted dramatically with his counterpart’s arrival-- and they were not now in his favor.

The other Spock merely looked amused. “Lovar, place your disruptor against the commander’s heart and fire if he moves.” He stepped toward McCoy. “Have you admired my new possession? I would not give him up in exchange for nothing.” He laid a hand on McCoy’s chest and trailed it down, lightly tweaking the golden chain between his nipples. McCoy hissed at the sensation and drew himself upright, his chin firming, the line of his jaw eloquent of stubborn resistance. His eyes flashed with irritation-- the expression reassuring Spock that his doctor’s fiery personality remained intact.

“Now you resist?” The other Spock’s fingers tangled in the chain, and he tugged lightly; McCoy shuddered, his eyes sliding shut. “Of course. You are ashamed for him to see how eagerly you submit to me.” He turned aside, eyeing Spock, still with that distinct undertone of amusement. “He only made me force him once.”

Spock raised a judgmental brow at himself, and the alternate lifted his chin as though inviting argument. “I read his mind when he attempted to defend the information regarding his crew, of course. Afterward, he did not make me hurt him again. Did you, doctor?”

McCoy fixed his gaze on his toes; all his exposed skin flushed crimson with humiliation. Spock felt a wave of sympathy for McCoy, remembering how Kirk had quoted the alternate Spock observing the doctor was soft, sentimental, and weak. Spock could guess how easy it would be to conquer Leonard’s untrained, unshielded mind and reap its vulnerable human secrets. It would be equally easy to break his bones and tear his flesh, to rape him, to kill him if he resisted. McCoy was not to blame for succumbing before the threat of such force, for keeping himself alive and intact. It was only logical-- though being a passionate, proud man, he would doubtless fail to see it thus. 

“When beset by overwhelming strength, it is logical to cease resistance in order to survive and await a better chance of victory,” he spoke directly to McCoy, whose eyes flickered upward briefly, then fell again. The doctor’s embarrassment continued unabated. 

“It is also illogical to resist advances that are desired. Is it not, Leonard?” The alternate Spock stroked his palm down McCoy’s arm. To Spock’s surprise McCoy didn’t flinch from it, his gaze firmly fastened to his toes. 

Spock felt the first stirring of real anger. _Stockholm syndrome._ He pulled his spine absolutely straight. “What is your purpose in conducting this conversation?”

“Negotiation, of course. I possess an object you would like returned. You have the opportunity to offer terms and convince me to accept your bargain.” His hand curved over McCoy’s buttocks, following their shape with proprietary appreciation. McCoy tensed, the line of his lips going white.

Spock regarded his double with caution. “What are your terms?”

“I think we should discuss them extensively.” The duplicate stepped forward. “I have enjoyed your doctor, Commander. He has been… pleasantly tractable.”

Spock felt his lips narrow with displeasure. “I have no time for pointless small talk.”

“I investigated your progress before answering Lovar’s call. I am aware the phase intersection necessary for beam-out will not fade entirely for another seventy-four hours; it will cycle several times during that interval. You will have other opportunities to depart.” The mirror Spock folded his hands calmly and displaced Lovar from his position by the computer terminal. “Leonard, return to bed.”

McCoy glanced between the two of them; receiving no alternative suggestion from his own universe’s Spock, he slowly obeyed. Spock noted the doctor did not remove his clothing or boots. Quite sensible. 

“What do you want?” Spock was in no mood for small talk with his duplicate. 

“I propose you prove yourself deserving of him by bonding him as your mate,” the alternative Spock said calmly. “You would find him more compatible than you may presently anticipate.”

“You would release him to me… on the condition that we become bondmates?” Spock was so startled he allowed his incredulity to show.

“Correct. Observe.” The doppelganger tapped at his computer, pulling up a file. Video surveillance, Spock noted-- of this cabin. Specifically, of the mirror Spock propelling McCoy inside. 

McCoy dragged his heels, struggling uselessly against the alternate’s grasp. He was dragged forward despite his efforts, then released to fall onto the duplicate Spock’s bed.

“This will be your residence until your own people come for you,” Spock said quietly, turning his back and moving to the computer desk. “Seclusion is necessary for your protection, doctor.”

“I can protect myself!” McCoy snapped, and Spock realized he was half-covered in blood-- red blood. Human. “That bastard was vivisecting a fucking crewman on ship-wide video feed, in case you didn’t notice--”

“You pass judgment on a situation you do not comprehend.” The mirror Spock showed no irritation. “That man attempted to assassinate a superior officer. His example will dissuade others among the crew from entertaining similar ideas.” He paused. “My doctor will be far more dangerous to you, should you encounter him again-- and he will have the advantages of personal vendetta and of his substantial support network, which includes a significant fraction of the operations staff and numerous prominent security personnel.” The alternative Spock summarized his objections calmly. “He underestimated you once. He will not do so a second time.”

“I’ll take him out of commission so fast--”

“You could try,” the alternate Spock said softly. “And you might even succeed. But I cannot allow that, either. I have plans for him.” He stepped forward toward the bed, and McCoy tensed, but did not flinch. “Look at you,” the alternate Spock said softly. “You are far more like him than you believe. You have endured _kae'at k'lasa_ at my hand, yet you do not back down. You are in terror, yet you challenge me-- you would fight this entire continuum to serve your own perception of what is right. You are well-named, lion-heart. But you are not a fool. You cannot win this time.” He reached out, stroking one knuckle against McCoy’s jaw. “I offer my protection until my double comes for you,” the alternate Spock promised.

McCoy’s adam’s apple bobbed. “So you’re a sonofabitch, but you’re _my_ sonofabitch, is that it?”

“I prefer to think of you as mine.” The alternate Spock caressed the doctor’s cheek again, and this time his thumb slid along McCoy’s lips. “But otherwise, your observation is essentially accurate.”

McCoy jerked his head away, but the duplicate Spock continued to hold his jaw, not allowing him to escape. 

Spock watched McCoy’s eyes dilate and his lips part in response to the touch; the doctor was trembling. 

“Yes, I know your secret,” the double whispered. “Whether or not you choose to fight, you will be easy to tame. But you may rest assured: it will happen even if you struggle. It would be logical to preserve yourself intact so you will not prove a burden to your rescuer.” His hand slid behind McCoy’s neck; McCoy jerked against it, trying in vain to break away. 

“You may believe your pride is of more importance to you than the health of your body… or your mind,” the alternate speculated. “But consider this, doctor. I would rather give you pleasure than pain.” 

True fear blossomed on McCoy’s face as the doppelganger slowly leaned in to take a kiss. 

McCoy did not choose to fight. After a few moments, his eyes closed. After as many more, his mouth opened.

Spock watched with vast distaste, unable to classify the feelings boiling below his composed surface as the video progressed-- relief that McCoy had not chosen to fight his double to the death? Jealousy of his double? Fury at the skillful coercion? Amazement over what it might mean that McCoy let his double to take what he wished rather than resisting him with every resource at his disposal? All of them plus more.

He glanced aside. McCoy had turned his back to them both and lay still, doubtless pretending indifference-- or better yet unawareness-- of their activity. Yet video followed video, and they were not silent. The doppelganger flipped through illustrative points as though he were leading a mission briefing, making it abundantly clear McCoy had grown to acquiesce willingly, experiencing great pleasure and eventually beginning to take an active part in the sexual activities.

“Your point is made.” Spock halted the replay firmly with one finger, keeping his voice toneless and dry despite the turmoil in his mind. “May we depart now, or are there further concessions you require?”

“Perhaps you would care to tour the ISS Enterprise with me while we discuss the terms of our bargain, Commander. You may find the differences of interest.”

Spock hesitated, not liking to leave McCoy alone. “Bring him with us.” He could not guess what the alternative Spock might be planning, but he did not want to be separated from McCoy.

“If you insist.” Spock had expected his duplicate to protest, but instead he seemed smug. 

The other Spock fixed Lovar with a commanding look. “Summon my private guard and accompany us, paying particular attention to Leonard’s safety.”

“Yes, Commander.” Lovar did so.

McCoy and the guards fell in behind them as they set out. Spock’s gaze rested on McCoy for a moment as they left the room. The doctor did not look up or reveal any emotion, bottling everything up behind an impressively neutral façade. The slight wrinkle in his brow revealed he was thinking hard. Spock judged it fortuitous he was not verging on catatonia or other mental incapacity. He seemed more or less psychologically intact.

The crew seemed startled and not very well-pleased to see two Spocks walking the halls with McCoy in tow; crewmen’s eyes darted aside, then lingered furtively after they passed. Spock could hear the faint buzz of whispers arising in their wake; humans often failed to compensate adequately for superior Vulcan hearing. His counterpart listened intently; Spock could tell by the attentive tilt of his head. His double did not reveal that he was observing the commentary of the crew, choosing to reserve the information he gathered. 

“You will of course have noted the agonizer booth.” The same crewman remained slumped inside, too exhausted to continue screaming, his sweat-slick face gray with pain. “Your crew seemed most troubled by this means of discipline, Commander; it was my first clue that the transport had gone amiss.”

Spock considered the wisdom of debating the ethics and efficacy of torture as a disciplinary tool and decided he had more important matters to pursue. Doubtless his counterpart was already aware of his objections. 

“You have said I must prove I am deserving of McCoy to rescue him,” Spock said, maintaining discretion. He tilted his head back toward McCoy. “I would offer this as my first proof. In his proper place, he will not be subject to such inhumane punishments.”

“He is not subject to them now.” The mirror Spock linked his fingers behind his back, strolling easily. “As my property, he is subject only to my discipline, not to military process.”

“How then do you discipline him?” Spock inquired tightly. “Threats of violence?” 

McCoy remained silent; he had not spoken since he first offered himself to Spock and was declined. 

“He does not require excessive discipline.” The other Spock shrugged. “He is easily managed with the promise of rewards-- or their withdrawal.”

“Rewards. Of what nature?” Spock doubted his counterpart’s claim. McCoy was a stubborn man, proud and quick-tempered. He would not bend easily.

“I allow him to care for crewmen when this universe’s McCoy is overloaded, or when they prefer not to consult the official medical staff for... personal reasons.”

Spock considered that with a sinking heart. Such promises seemed a likely way to manipulate Leonard with great efficiency. McCoy would certainly swallow his pride if it meant he could fulfill his oath to help others. “I see.” It could explain McCoy’s obvious sexual servitude and might even allow his counterpart to salve his conscience by claiming there was no coercion involved in Leonard’s service. But coercion came in many guises.

The other Spock led them to the rec room, and they paused at the door. “Crews must have a place and time to indulge in relaxation, must they not, Commander?” 

Spock doubted such relaxation would be to his taste; nevertheless, when they entered, he spied a chessboard, cards, tables of crewmen and women talking… normal things he associated with this room. 

However, other crewmen were not behaving at all as he was accustomed. Some sat in one another’s laps; some knelt on the floor before others. In one end of the room, games were in process that swiftly persuaded Spock to avert his eyes; he had no desire to witness the activities being indulged. 

Kirk sat reclined among the crew, gazing at him and his counterpart with predatory interest. “Mr. Spock. ...and Mr. Spock.” His grin stretched wide as a shark’s. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Spock calculated the diminishing chance of escape as he nodded to Kirk, keeping his facial expression smooth. He glanced at Leonard, only to find he had moved behind the shelter of the alternate Spock, keeping the man’s body fully between himself and the captain of the ISS Enterprise. 

It seemed he retained a wise sense of self-preservation. Spock’s observations of the alternate Kirk indicated the man was a martinet, likely a megalomaniac and a narcissist as well. He was neither stable nor predictable; he would not be inclined to abide by the terms any bargains to which he agreed.

“So pleased you’ve come to join us,” Kirk said. He sat kicked back in a plush chair, his feet firmly lodged atop the rail of the billiard table, ignoring the inconvenience to the men playing there. They continued their game around him, pretending not to notice. “Will you be making your toy available for play while you entertain yourself, Spock?” He stared at Leonard, and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. 

“I will not.” Spock seated himself. “Attend me, Leonard.”

Keeping his eyes on the floor, McCoy approached the alternate Spock and sat down on his lap, spreading his legs to either side of the Vulcan’s thighs. He lay back obediently, apparently well-accustomed to the posture, resting his head next to the duplicate Spock’s. He lay still, supported on his master’s shoulder. 

Kirk pouted; his expression was amused, even winsome, but his eyes froze hard as ice. “Then perhaps we’ll have a game of chess later. I daresay I can think of adequate stakes.” His eyes raked McCoy with avarice.

“Perhaps.” Spock could tell his double had no intention of making any such wager. 

Spock cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “I did not come here to while away idle hours indulging in inconsequential pleasantries.” He spoke loudly enough to be heard, then lowered his voice. “I wonder why you question my worthiness to take Leonard when he is so obviously in peril here. You seek to delay me for some other reason, perhaps hoping to imprison me with him.”

“You mistake my intention,” the other Spock said, equally quiet. _“Tell me. If you return with Leonard, will he resume hazardous duty? Will he be expected to accompany landing parties and treat contagious diseases of unknown origin and type?”_

_“Those are among his duties.”_

_“He is safer here, in my quarters, under guard.”_

_“In our universe he is free.”_ Spock lifted his chin, stubborn. _“Freedom is worth a calculated amount of risk.”_ He gazed about, his alarm increasing as the alternative McCoy strolled in with a few of his staff. Chapel nudged McCoy, and the doctor turned to regard them, his remaining eye narrowing to a slit. He did not look at Spock, but rather at Leonard. The alternative McCoy bared his teeth. 

“Look at the pathetic weakling whore,” he spat-- literally; the spittle narrowly missed striking Spock’s knee. 

“He was strong enough to take your eye when you attempted to kill him.” The mirror Spock answered him, perfectly serene. He lifted his hand, setting it on Leonard’s belly, possessive.

Rage pulsed visibly through the alternate doctor; he ground his teeth and clenched his fists. Everyone in the room went quiet, hands sliding to knives and phasers. Lovar stirred, his disruptor centered firmly on the doctor, conjured so smoothly Spock had barely seen the flicker of motion. 

“He has nothing you could not have for the asking.” Spock’s counterpart turned his attention to Leonard, one powerful hand caressing McCoy’s bare chest and belly with long, languid strokes. 

“I’m no one’s fucking pet,” the mirror McCoy snarled, livid. 

Spock felt the tips of his ears flush slightly at the interchange; the enslaved Leonard kept his face studiously turned aside, but his adam’s apple bobbed again. Then he stiffened, inhaling sharply, and his body trembled.

Spock realized his double was fondling Leonard intimately; one hand moved steadily beneath golden cloth. His own hand flashed out without thought, catching the alternate’s wrist.

 _“Neither is he,”_ he said, very low. 

_“Is he not?”_ The alternate Spock inquired politely. Spock realized his bare wrist now lay against Leonard’s skin; Leonard’s frantic emotions battered at his shields. Humiliation… and heat, a sensual response to the caress. Spock snatched his hand away as if he had been burned, his eyes fixed on Leonard. Leonard’s fists closed; he shut his eyes, his face pinched with shame and misery.

Spock grew aware of Kirk watching, smirking at them all.

“It would seem the four of you have a great deal to discuss,” Kirk grinned, the expression feral. “I could solve your problems quite simply, of course.”

“That will not be necessary,” the alternate Spock intoned, resuming his lascivious attentions to Leonard, who quivered slightly, biting his lip and attempting to show no other response.

The alternate McCoy snarled, summoning his retinue with a jerk of his head, and stalked away. The group seated themselves across the room, keeping their backs to a convenient wall and maintaining a clear route to the exit. 

“Achieved your goal, I see,” Kirk grinned at him. “You’re playing a hell of a dangerous game there, Spock. One of these days he’ll decide he’d rather vivisect you for fun than patch you up after a mission.”

“That is why I keep M’Benga as my personal physician.” The duplicate Spock did not seem perturbed.

“Staging such an elaborate scene in order to make your McCoy jealous is illogical.” A hush fell as Spock stated his opinion; he could not be sure if it was his insolence or his claim that the alternative McCoy had experienced anger due to jealousy. He did not care. “If you desire him, I am sure you have the means to secure him.”

“Perhaps so. But I have learned that having is not always so pleasing a thing as wanting,” the alternative Spock commented, his thin lips curving up cruelly-- his hand still tormenting Spock’s own doctor, whose teeth savaged his lip as the words made him flush again with shame.

“Remove your hands from him.” Spock stood and seized McCoy, pulling him away and tucking the doctor against himself. McCoy stood stiffly within the circle of his arm. “He is not yours.”

“Shall I stop him for you, Spock?” Kirk drawled lazily. “It would not be difficult.”

“There is no need.” The alternate Spock made no move to motion Lovar forward, though the guards fairly quivered with readiness. “Claim him if you would have him, Spock,” the duplicate said, and the room went absolutely silent. “Challenge me to _koon ut kalifee._ ” 

Spock’s mind whirred into high gear-- his duplicate had already confessed this doctor was not of particular worth to him; it would be illogical for him to choose to participate in a fight that must surely result in death for one of the two Spocks. He could not be assured of victory. 

“It is not my choice. McCoy is the one whose favor is sought; he has the only right to decree the challenge,” Spock said. 

“Very well.” Amusement resounded in the duplicate’s voice; Spock could not tell whether his counterpart was truly pleased or merely wished to appear that he had manipulated the situation to his liking. Perhaps he had; traditional Vulcan mating rituals were convoluted, and--

“Leonard McCoy, son of David, of the USS Enterprise. Does thee choose to be mine or his?” The duplicate barked the question in ritual phrasing, and Spock’s heart sank. 

“His,” McCoy said immediately, a flicker of defiance. Spock suppressed a surge of relief.

“I require proof of thy bonding. Spock, claim thy mate before these witnesses.” The alternative Spock tilted his head to encompass everyone in the room. 

McCoy’s jaw tightened with dismay and Spock swallowed; McCoy had chosen the bonding in ignorance, but this was neither the time nor the place to educate him in specifics of Vulcan mating culture. 

“You will provoke your doctor beyond his tolerance to endure,” Spock stated flatly. The other Spock had chosen the location for this confrontation well; half the crew of the Enterprise would witness it.

“His anger makes him weak.” The alternate Spock’s eyes glinted with malicious amusement. “He will deliver himself into my hands in time.”

“Dammit, Spock.” Leonard’s voice was diffident, but it did not shake. “Let’s do what we have to do and get the hell out of here. _Please._ ” His clear blue eyes were alert and direct, steady with resolve; this was his own Leonard shining through, strong and sure, not merely a shell-shocked victim of Stockholm syndrome. 

Spock swallowed hard, then set his hand on Leonard’s face, turning the doctor to face him. There was no room to second-guess his decision.

“My mind to your mind,” he said softly. “My thoughts to your thoughts.” 

He remembered the way of this, though it had only happened to him once, long ago-- the neural pathways in his own mind were clearly marked, though they had been empty since T’Pring chose the challenge and negated their childhood bonding. 

McCoy’s steady gaze held him fixed. Leonard’s lips were parted, his breath coming fast between them; Spock understood he had been conditioned to respond to such a mental touch with arousal. Mingled with his sexual attraction, McCoy felt deep shame; his secrets were all discovered, and he was at the mercy of Spock’s tolerance for his emotions. Yet there was an openness to him in this moment Spock found hard to understand: a trust and vulnerability McCoy had not displayed when the mirror Spock held sway over him. He was obviously prepared to allow whatever Spock might choose to do. 

Spock would not have advised McCoy to push his faith so far. Bonding their minds was necessary, but he would soon not forgive the other version of himself for forcing them both to this choice.

He pushed his consciousness inside McCoy’s, eliciting a soft, moaning gasp. McCoy yielded easily, without resistance, apparently well-accustomed to such intimate touches. But Spock pressed deep without hesitation, and McCoy’s eyes widened, growing hazy. His soul vibrated with deep emotion-- a little fear, a little shame, but also anticipation, even welcome as the presence of his own Spock gave him hope.

Spock wove the link delicately but swiftly-- there was no possibility of doing such a thing halfway. He was no longer a child; as a sexually mature adult, any link he created with this intent would come into existence as a full and permanent marriage bond.

His duplicate was correct. McCoy’s mind was highly compatible with his own-- and based on the videos Spock had witnessed, they would evidently be compatible sexually, as well. Perhaps the doppelganger even believed he was doing Spock a favor by providing him with a bondmate for the inevitability of _pon farr._

McCoy sighed, his eyes closing, but they no longer needed to see or even hear one another to communicate. _He says if you and I are joined, quantum resonance between the two continuums will pressure his own universe to adjust itself likewise,_ McCoy’s mind felt hazy, drugged with burst of endorphins produced by creation of the new link. _His doctor will be… encouraged… to join with him._

Spock did not have to imagine what sorts of encouragement his counterpart might find acceptable. He frowned, but held McCoy close to him, and the doctor nestled closer, his hazy thoughts gaining urgency. _He means to let us go back so the quantum resonance will have a chance to work._

Logical. Doubtless his counterpart had thoroughly investigated this theory. Spock blinked his eyes open, aware that the eyes of the entire assembly were fixed on the two of them. 

“The bonding is accomplished and the terms of our bargain are met. We will return to our own universe now.” He leveled a quiet stare on his counterpart, prepared for resistance despite McCoy’s assurances. 

The alternative Spock let his lips quirk upwards, displaying the slightest hint of satisfaction. “Repeated cross-dimensional travel may weaken the barriers between our universes. Therefore, I have created an ionic frequency resonator that will disable travel between our two continuums by reducing the strength of the positive couplings along the intersectional phase window,” he explained politely. “I trust this is something you will see to in your own universe, as well.”

“Indeed,” Spock agreed, keenly conscious of Leonard leaning against his side. The doctor’s mind was resilient, but his body was unprepared for the chemical byproducts of the bonding. Spock scooped McCoy up when he faltered and would have fallen. 

Leonard nestled instinctively against his chest, sighing. Spock turned a malevolent gaze on his counterpart, who very nearly smiled, the angles and planes of his face eloquent of triumph.

“I believe the window for exchange has not yet shut. I will escort the two of you to the transporter room.” The mirror Spock did not quite smile with triumph. “And may I be first to offer congratulations on your marriage?”

Spock ignored him, but he accepted the escort, alert for signs of trouble.

Contrary to his caution, they were expeditiously put on the transporter and sent home. 

When Spock materialized with Leonard in his arms Scott and Kirk were waiting, and both their eyes flew open wide as their jaws dropped. Spock winced; Leonard would not care for being displayed before his friends in this manner. Nor would he appreciate Spock carrying him through the corridors of the Enterprise clad only in the accouterments of a sexual slave.

“Holy shit,” Jim hissed, rushing forward. “What the hell-- queen to king’s rook five.” He stopped abruptly.

“Pawn to queen’s knight four,” Spock responded promptly. “Captain, I believe Dr. McCoy requires an emergency blanket.”

“You’re right. Scotty.” Kirk snapped, then took the rough blanket from him and tucked it around McCoy. “What happened to Bones, Spock?”

Spock hesitated. “The alternative first officer took it on himself to become the doctor’s protector.” It was innocuous enough for Scott’s ears and ominous enough to let Kirk know there was much more that had not been said. 

“Let’s get him to sickbay.”

Spock suspected Leonard would resist such a course, were he able, but fortunately he was not. “He is suffering from psychic shock.”

M’Benga and Chapel met them halfway, taking McCoy from Spock and laying him out on a stretcher. M’Benga passed his scanner over McCoy, scowling at the display. “Decreased respiration and dilated pupils. Slow heart rate. Brain-scan looks like a dissociative state.”

“He was subjected to a bonding meld without adequate preparation,” Spock told M’Benga shortly. 

“We’ll dose him with Lexorin to start, then start a low dose of benzodiazepine and maintain it until his brain chemistry normalizes,” M’Benga directed Chapel, neatly sliding between Spock and the stretcher. “Mr. Spock,” M’Benga managed to be tactful despite the intensity of his focus on McCoy. “The injections will suppress his psionic capacity and are likely to cause psychic distress to the telepath who bonded with him.”

“Noted.” Spock fell in behind them, avoiding Kirk’s concerned gaze. “I will accompany you.”

“What the hell happened, Spock?” Kirk followed hot on their heels. “I want details.”

“I will have my report ready in--”

“Now!” Kirk glared at him, exasperated.

“Medical privilege, captain. If he’s not already compromised, he’s about to be.” M’Benga shook his head briskly. “No reports.”

“You bonded telepathically with McCoy,” Kirk persisted.

“Under duress.” Spock answered reluctantly. “It was preferable to the alternative.”

“Which was?”

“Taking my duplicate’s bed slave from him against his wishes and fighting our way to the transporter room through the entire ISS Enterprise crew, then accomplishing the beam-out under hostile combat conditions, assuming we survived to make the attempt.” Spock delivered the words with an impatient snap as M’Benga strapped McCoy onto a biobed. 

“You should be seated when I administer this hypodermic,” the doctor warned Spock, so he lowered himself into the chair Chapel pushed forward. 

Kirk frowned with distress, obviously digesting the term ‘bed slave,’ words Spock already regretted using. It would, perhaps, have been wise to take M’Benga’s protective offer of medical privilege seriously. 

“Captain, I--” dizziness struck him, washing duty away with a swirl of nausea.

*****

When Spock returned to consciousness, the unfamiliar weight of a warm, slender body lay half-across him. Soft sounds of monitors and equipment informed him he was in the medical bay; the scent of the body touching his was easily recognizable as McCoy’s. The doctor’s decorative piercings had been removed and the small wounds healed, leaving a residual scent of blood and antiseptic.

“He’s returned to consciousness,” M’Benga said calmly. “Mr. Spock, welcome back. I judged it best to address the trauma you experienced during the psionic suppression by increasing physical contact between you and your bondmate.”

“Very logical.” Spock blinked up at McCoy’s dismayed expression. “I regret my weakness necessitates what is doubtless an uncomfortably evocative position, doctor.” He wondered if he should have used the formal title, or if he were now permitted to address McCoy as ‘Leonard.’ He had never been invited to do so.

“Swallowed a damned dictionary,” McCoy muttered. His face was very close to Spock’s, so close Spock couldn’t focus properly. Spock swallowed hard. The silence of the new bond in his mind paled next to the warm reality of McCoy in his arms-- he had wrapped both arms instinctively around the doctor, who therefore could not withdraw even if he wanted. 

Spock made himself loosen his grasp, trying to pay heed to M’Benga.

“There isn’t much information on expectations for Vulcans who bond as adults-- at least, not much that I can access.” M’Benga’s voice sharpened with disapproval. “The Vulcan Silences are particularly inconvenient for any physician who has to treat you, Commander Spock. I can conjecture a number of possible outcomes, but I’m guessing in the dark. I would recommend consulting a Vulcan mind-healer as soon as possible, particularly if you hope to sever this connection.”

Though Spock had released him, McCoy wasn’t moving. His passivity caused Spock significant worry and distraction. Perhaps Leonard was more seriously incapacitated than Spock had assumed. 

“What is Doctor McCoy’s condition?” Spock inquired, tense. 

“We’ve stabilized his brain chemistry. Gradual reduction of the psionic suppressants we’re dosing him with will allow his own regulatory system to take over; if we see any problems developing as we go, we’ll revise the treatment program.” M’Benga consulted a PADD. “I don’t anticipate significant chemical problems. Psychological problems, however, are a different matter.” He addressed McCoy directly. “I’m recommending counseling to determine and address the severity and extent of the trauma you endured during your kidnapping, Leonard.”

“I would prefer if you focus your efforts on treating McCoy. I am capable of caring for myself,” Spock said, and McCoy lifted his head, scoffing. 

“Nice to know it’s not just my medical advice you don’t care about.” McCoy’s chest purred when he spoke, resonating pleasantly against Spock. “My psyche is just fine, Geoff; I don’t need a shrink.”

“You’re going to have to pass a full psych battery before I let you off that particular hook, Len.” 

“Shit.” McCoy breathed the word so softly only Spock heard him. By reflex, Spock lifted a protective hand and rested it on McCoy’s back. He felt the doctor tense; he watched McCoy’s lashes catch the light as he blinked.

Spock felt helpless, pinned by the intensity of McCoy’s piercing stare. Something in McCoy’s expression kept Spock from removing his hand; he resisted the urge to allow it to stir in a caress along Leonard’s spine. 

The doctor was still clad in the brief garment he’d worn in the alternate universe; his skin was very warm and soft. Arousal stirred in Spock’s belly. Guilt assailed him and he snatched his hand away as if he had been burned. McCoy’s eyes hardened a little; he slid most of his weight off Spock, though the narrow bed prevented him from withdrawing entirely. 

“Somebody get me a damned uniform. Christine?” 

“You’re not certified to return to duty.” M’Benga shook his head at Chapel.

“Fuck being certified!”

“Bones!” Kirk couldn’t stifle a half-laugh. “Do you want to set a bad example for the next time you won’t certify me?”

McCoy snarled. “All right, get me a coverall, then. I just want some damn clothes and I want out of this bed.”

“I don’t think that’s a good--” M’Benga didn’t get all the words out before McCoy halted him in his tracks.

“Out. Of this. Bed,” McCoy repeated. 

M’Benga gave a reluctant nod and Chapel scuttled off to fetch a medical coverall. Spock attempted unobtrusively to make himself as small as possible without actually moving, trying to give McCoy the space he desired. 

McCoy was shaky when he sat up and worse when he tried to stand; Chapel helped him out of the briefs and into the coverall while Spock masked his own distress by drawing a thermal blanket over his body and fussing with it until he made it lie smooth. Kirk moved to help him, his mouth set in a grim line, lips so narrow they all but disappeared.

Chapel and M’Benga settled McCoy on the biobed closest to Spock’s. “I’m fine. Stop trying to coddle me,” he snapped, settling his own pillow. 

The absence of contact with McCoy ached in an indefinable way-- the closest comparison Spock could think of was to a toothache, or possibly the sensation of the silent bond might be comparable to the sensation of pain in a phantom limb, a phenomenon he had never actually experienced. 

McCoy scowled and muttered, trying in vain to settle on the other bed; Spock wondered how much of his discomfort was due to the enforced physical and mental distance between them.

M’Benga looked between them and shook his head, exasperated. “Chapel, monitor them closely. If their physiological state fluctuates at all-- anything-- I want you to put them back together. Use one of the xeno beds we got for large species. Captain, I’m sorry, but my patients need to rest. You can visit again in eight hours.”

Kirk’s eyes snapped with annoyance, but he acquiesced. “We’ve got you back now, Bones. Everything’s going to get better from here,” he tried to reassure them before he departed.

Spock hoped he was right-- but Kirk had barely departed before McCoy began to flag. His skin had paled to an alarming ash gray.

“Doctor McCoy?” Spock tried to get his attention in vain. “Leonard.” McCoy did not respond.

“Dr. M’Benga,” Chapel looked up from the monitors with alarm. “Dr. McCoy’s blood pressure is dropping.”

Spock scrambled out of bed, weak on his own legs, and went to Leonard, curling around him. McCoy’s eyes barely fluttered; he was already gone.

“Stay in contact with him.” M’Benga clicked his tongue. “Sometimes doctors make the worst patients.” 

M’Benga stepped aside and began to issue orders to Chapel while Leonard still lay senseless in Spock’s arms, his color slowly returning. 

“Prepare the xeno bed in a private examination room and move them to it as soon as McCoy is able to walk. Monitor remotely. ...Do _you_ think they want random crewmen to see them like this? Just do what I said.” M’Benga’s quiet voice sharpened.

Testing a hypothesis, Spock opened McCoy’s coverall and slid his hand in to touch skin. In moments the doctor’s lashes fluttered and his dazed eyes sought Spock’s, clearing as they focused on him. 

“You experienced a sudden drop in blood pressure. Doctor M’Benga believes it was directly caused by our physical separation.” Spock did too, given how swiftly McCoy had come around once they were touching skin-to-skin. “I, too, was adversely affected,” he added swiftly when McCoy’s face darkened to a scowl. 

“That bearded bastard really did a number on us.” Fortunately McCoy did not try to pull away again. “Sonofabitch warned me about this.”

“What additional information did he disclose to you?”

McCoy paused for a moment before choosing his answer. “He conjectured we would be bonded telepathically-- and sexually. For good.” His tone was clipped, curt. “He said another Vulcan could break the mind link, but it would probably break at least one of us, too-- scramble his brains like an egg. Not worth it.” He paused. “At least, not to me.” 

Spock sighed. “You may not yet possess all the relevant information to make that determination.”

“Oh, I think I do. He explained to me in great detail why he wants his universe’s doctor bound to him.” McCoy grimaced. “He needs a bondmate to survive, he said. If he doesn’t have one, he’ll go into heat eventually and die.” He lowered his voice so that only Spock could hear. “And so will you.”

Spock stiffened. “Though there was more than one logical reason for us to bond, you have no obligation to endure the--”

“Obligation?” McCoy snapped. “Don’t talk to me about obligation. You’re the one who--”

“Doctor McCoy,” Chapel’s crisp voice intruded, ending the argument. “If you’re feeling well enough to argue with Commander Spock, you’re feeling well enough to move to a private room.”

“Shave his goddam face while he’s up,” McCoy demanded, half-sullen. “I’m not spending another minute in bed with that beard.”

Spock acquiesced to being shorn, relieved to be rid of the uncharacteristic facial hair. Without it he felt lighter and cleaner, much more himself. Yet he could not banish his disquiet. McCoy’s words echoed in his mind, and he found himself unable to parse them.

 _You’re the one who._ the phrase repeated in Spock’s mind as they were decanted together into a single wheelchair and transferred into the private examination area. A double bed awaited their arrival, fresh sheets being straightened by a junior nurse. 

Spock could postulate a small infinity of possible conclusions to McCoy’s accusing statement. He was the one who should be held responsible for McCoy’s predicament, perhaps. 

“Stop it,” McCoy hissed at him, eyes narrow, accepting Chapel’s assistance onto the bed. Spock followed him, drawn as if by magnetism; she withdrew promptly after he settled. “I may not be able to read your mind, but I can guess what you’re thinking. I chose this as the best of the available alternatives-- the logical choice. Don’t go martyring yourself thinking I didn’t! You’re the one who came into this blind; you had no clue about the trap you were walking into.”

“Yet I have a fuller understanding of the implications of our choice than you.” Spock resisted the temptation to argue his readiness to enter the alternate universe. Instead he lay down next to McCoy. Immediately he began to relax. McCoy’s scent filled his nostrils, rich and familiar and very human, soothing him. He suppressed a frown. He was apparently imprinting on McCoy already, his body engaging with the biochemical portion of their bond regardless of his mind’s best intentions. “I would not wish to take advantage of that knowledge.”

McCoy laughed, dry and a little bitter. “Trust me, Spock, from someone who’s been taken full advantage of over the last month or two: that’s not one of my concerns.”

“It is my primary concern. You require assistance with recovery from the trauma of your recent experience, not a new intimate relationship with a man identical in almost every aspect to the one who forced you.”

McCoy barked a laugh. “You’ve got it all wrong.” His bitterness-- and shame-- welled anew. “That other Spock was many things, but he wasn’t a liar.” He averted his gaze, lips thinning, but his tone remained defiant. “He was a hard-minded man, prepared to do anything to achieve his goals, largely unmoved by… emotional considerations.” McCoy took a deep breath. “Yet I was of specific value to him, and he had no wish to send me back to you in a damaged condition-- particularly not damaged in a way that would make me reject y-- the bond he intended us to form,” he amended, voice hoarse with embarrassment. “The bond he insisted you both need.”

Spock respected the doctor’s embarrassment, lying very still. McCoy’s pulse beat steadily under his fingertips. It was a little too swift, indicating continued emotional upheaval.

Spock considered the doctor’s words. His duplicate had insisted he hadn’t forced McCoy. Perhaps it was true. Logically it would have done McCoy no good to resist, but perhaps McCoy had acted under the influence of additional motivations. Spock was not qualified to identify or judge them.

“I’m sorry about all this.” McCoy gestured at them both, still avoiding Spock’s eyes. “When these symptoms recede, I won’t make any demands of you. We can go back to the way it was, except for,” he took a deep breath. “When you need me.”

Spock considered the offer. McCoy was right. If the bond was not broken, when pon farr came they would both burn. “That is one possibility of many.” But would it be a logical one? Was it the option both he and McCoy truly desired?

Spock remembered T’Pring; their bonding had never brought about the closeness he had observed in other couples. He had been unsure at first whether the distance she maintained between their minds meant she did not want him, or whether it merely reflected her aloof personality. He had once intended to pursue the course of a purely pragmatic bonding with her, and he had perceived no lack in that. 

In sharp contrast to T’Pring, a human bondmate would want-- would require-- affection. Though perhaps a distant and practical union such as that he might have shared with T’Pring was not ideal, Spock was not sure he could provide the amount and type of affection necessary to satisfy a human. Based on his acquaintance with humans, it seemed probable his mother and father’s successful marriage represented an unusual case. His mother was quite reserved and cool for a human.

When the human in question was Leonard McCoy, famed for wearing his heart on his sleeve and reacting with intense emotion to any and every stimulus, equally famous for his perennial irritation with Spock… perhaps the sort of logic that had guided his father to choose a human mate and the additional life-or-death pressure that had guided Spock to bond with McCoy were not adequate motivations for attempting to develop a romantic relationship in addition to a sexual one.

“Humans place a high value on happiness and emotional fulfillment,” Spock said. “As a Vulcan, I cannot guarantee my ability to provide those requirements in a relationship.”

McCoy regained enough self-confidence to appraise Spock’s expression, raising a brow. “Spock,” he drawled lazily. “Neither can another human being. That’s the reason why so many humans prefer to sign up for short-term marriage contracts.”

“Do most human mates disagree as frequently as we do, doctor?” There would be no question of entering into a short-term contract with a mating bond involved. They were already bonded-- likely until death released one of the two partners. 

McCoy grinned suddenly. “Spock, married humans fight all day every day and twice as often on Sundays.”

Spock raised a brow. “Then perhaps my understanding of human romantic relationships is fundamentally flawed.”

“Pretty much everybody’s seems to be.” McCoy settled himself on the pillow with a tired sigh. “Anyway, if we had the sense to stop talking for five minutes, maybe we could get some sleep.”

Spock doubted McCoy needed it, given that he’d been resting when Spock arrived in the alternate universe-- but it had been a stressful day for the human. Sleeping would perhaps be preferable to lying here engaging in awkward conversation, or even fighting, until they were released.

“Very well.” He closed his eyes and pretended not to notice McCoy’s persistent fidgeting. Eventually the human succeeded in lulling himself to sleep, and Spock allowed himself to follow.

*****

Spock startled awake, prompted by an unfamiliar sensation, and froze for a moment in the darkness, disoriented-- until the faint sounds of sickbay filtering through the wall grounded him in reality. He was aboard the Enterprise, sequestered in the medical area, having rescued and bonded with McCoy. The doctor lay in his arms, nuzzling sleepily at his hands. His coverall had slipped down to his waist during the night and the skin of his bare back pressed against Spock’s chest. 

McCoy was stronger than he looked; he had cared for his body thoughtfully. He was very lean but nicely muscular, without an ounce of excess body fat. He was quite pleasant to hold.

Spock remained absolutely still; McCoy was, perhaps, still only partly conscious, disoriented, and likely believed himself to be with Spock’s duplicate in the alternate universe. He would soon awaken and cease his actions. Allowing this to occur was doubtless preferable to the alternative of waking McCoy and causing him to lash out in anger born of embarrassment. 

McCoy’s face was harsh with stubble, tickling at Spock’s palm as he nestled there, but his lips were warm and soft, trailing against Spock’s fingers. Spock swallowed harshly; the touching of mouths to hands was widely regarded as lewd and indecent among Vulcans-- perhaps he should be unsurprised that his double had been so immoral he taught McCoy to offer shameful services. 

McCoy’s caresses were not at all unpleasant.

Spock squeezed his eyes shut and tried in vain to regulate his breathing; McCoy’s warm velvet tongue slid against his fingers, then circled over the pad of one. Heat was followed by chill as the wet flesh cooled. Spock’s skin tingled at the contrast, fine hairs prickling all over his body. McCoy’s hips shifted lazily, his buttocks pushing rhythmically against Spock’s groin. Clearly he intended to offer Spock the option of penetrative intercourse. 

Spock was not wholly innocent of sexual activity; he had engaged in coitus with females on a few prior occasions, though he had not always been in his right mind and had counted most of those events as coercion. Those women had never put their mouths on his hands-- likely none of them had ever guessed it would affect him so intensely. 

Spock lay trembling with the effort of restraint. _My double trained McCoy to please him efficiently._ The thought should have repelled him, should have angered him, but instead, it drove a spike of lust through his body.

 _He is my bondmate. Such things are allowed between bonded mates. Sexual congress is encouraged rather than frowned upon,_ his mind whispered a traitorous siren-song. _But he is not aware,_ Spock’s conscience chided in response, and so he remained very still as McCoy lapped at his fingers, slow and sensual. Spock shuddered with astonishing, intense desire, focused on the slow motion of the body against him and the tongue that curled around his fingertips, driving all rational thought out of his brain and replacing it with pure sensation. 

McCoy hummed with pleasure, a low, comfortable rumble against Spock’s chest. He was awakening slowly, his whole body loose and willing, perfectly relaxed. The way he lazily savored his contact with Spock’s fingers could indicate only sensual pleasure. McCoy was, indeed, quite fully willing to give himself to Spock’s duplicate. Every relaxed, sensual motion, every gentle press of Leonard’s body, spoke of... enjoyment.

Spock squeezed his eyes shut; his free hand closed to a fist against McCoy’s belly. His penis pulsated with a growing charge of pleasure as it pushed its way out of its sheath, eager for consummation. It would be so very, very simple to divest McCoy of the coverall, to push himself inside the body that spread its thighs for him, that writhed against him, craving the gift and receipt of pleasure. His duplicate would already have taken what was offered.

But Spock was not that man. He was in control, and he would not take advantage of McCoy’s half-sleep, of his disorientation. It would be unforgiva--

McCoy suckled two of Spock’s fingers fully into his mouth, tongue strumming skillfully in between them, and Spock gasped aloud as the gathering sensation flared and pulsed through him, irresistible. His arms tightened and he thrust once against McCoy’s body as his orgasm wrung him with pleasure and he spent his seed, soaking the cloth between them. 

Spock could not choke down a cry; when his peak passed and his convulsive clutch eased, McCoy turned lazily in his arms, smiling, and moved to kiss him-- then froze mere centimeters from his mouth, his eyes focusing, turning sharp with knowledge as they marked the absence of a beard on Spock’s face.

“Shit!” McCoy breathed as he pulled back, breaking the contact in haste. “All that worrying you did, thinking you were going to take advantage of me. And here I’ve gone and done it to you!” 

“I am sorry.” Spock’s voice sounded husky and hoarse. “I should have awakened you.”

McCoy wrapped his arms around his lean, wiry body in a gesture of self-comfort. “I need to go to the head,” he said, strangely toneless. “And I guess you do, too. If I pass out, call for Chapel.”

He didn’t, but Spock thought it was a near thing-- McCoy leaned heavily on various objects as he returned, and he flopped down awkwardly, uncontrolled. By the time Spock had done similarly and returned to the bed his own legs were shaky. McCoy was very pale, swallowing convulsively, fists knotted in the bedding. He let Spock nestle against him and didn’t speak, but he breathed easier and his hands loosened their grasp on the blanket. Spock noticed he had clothed himself fully again, fastening the coverall all the way to his throat.

“He liked me to wake him up with sex every morning.” McCoy spoke, again dispassionate and toneless, entirely unlike himself. “I felt you in bed with me, and thought I was still with him.”

“Understandable.” Spock took a slow breath. “It was not unpleasant.”

McCoy regarded him thoughtfully, eyes piercing. “No,” he finally acknowledged. “It wasn’t. We should be okay when your time comes.”

Chapel chose that moment to raise the lights and bustle in, tricorder in hand, two nurses carrying breakfast trays behind her.

“Feeling better this morning, Leonard?” She didn’t pause for his answer, running the scanner over him. “You had a bad moment just now… I assume it was necessary to separate to tend to personal needs.” 

McCoy turned beet red and Spock cleared his throat, staring studiously down at the tray a nurse deposited over his lap. Of course their… activities… were being closely monitored. 

“Dr. M’Benga says further therapeutic contact is likely to prove beneficial in stabilizing your telepathic link,” Chapel declared with deliberate ambiguity, never turning a hair. “It’s quite promising that Doctor McCoy remained conscious today after passing out from a less protracted separation yesterday.”

“I hate poached eggs,” McCoy exploded, stabbing at a horribly-shaped mound perched on a piece of melba toast. “I’m not an invalid, damn it. Bring me some oatmeal or fruit or something I can _eat.”_ Spock wondered what it meant that McCoy was channeling his anger elsewhere than him, its usual recipient.

“You need the protein, doctor,” Chapel returned equably. 

“Then at least boil the damned thing till the center is solid!” He locked eyes with her, scowling furiously. 

“Call it an incentive to get well.” She made no move to replace his breakfast. “Mr. Spock, I trust your casaba melon is adequate.” 

Chapel had provided more than twice the portion Spock would have regarded as sufficient for himself; he suspected her of ulterior motives. “It is,” he said evenly. He waited until she turned away to plug the results of her scan into the main computer, then forked a segment onto McCoy’s plate. 

The doctor scowled at him in turn, but devoured the melon before Chapel turned back to face them once more. “It’s time for your psionic suppressant, doctor. Doctor M’Benga has reduced the dosage to half the strength of yesterday’s, so you should begin to experience some faint awareness of the telepathic bond today,” she explained. “If you handle it well, your dose will be halved again tomorrow.”

“Goody,” McCoy sniped at her, peppering and salting his poached egg within an inch of its life and taking a bite, then making a face at her. “When can I climb out of the hobgoblin’s lap?”

Chapel raised a brow at him with perfect elegance. “As soon as you really want to, I’m sure.”

McCoy flushed again, even deeper red this time. “The sooner the better,” he muttered, taking another bite. 

*****

McCoy responded well to the gradual reduction of the psionic suppressant, his brain chemistry remaining stable as the bond slowly opened between them once more. He and Spock spent their mandatory time in sickbay bickering over anything that came to mind, the sharp words serving as a barrier of sorts against the new, enforced intimacy between them. Spock did not take the arguments seriously. As McCoy’s dosage of psionic suppressant decreased, it became apparent McCoy didn’t actually mean most of what he said. There was no real rancor in the doctor’s mind-- mainly self-consciousness and embarrassment, emotions Spock regrettably shared. 

After two days of stability, M’Benga tested periods of separation, increasing duration and distance in cautious increments. Finally on the fourth day he cleared Spock and McCoy free to depart, with orders to resume proximity if they felt adverse effects. 

They both made a beeline for their quarters. Spock was unsure whether it was fortunate that they were adjacent. Perhaps not; McCoy hesitated at the door to his room for a heartbeat then lunged inside. The door closed behind him with a sound of quiet finality. 

After an instant’s hesitation Spock did the same. He was not accustomed to experiencing indecision at such times, but he was genuinely unsure how best to respond to the situation. Perhaps the doctor required distance in order to return to normal.

After retreating, Spock pursued his normal routine preparatory to returning to duty: a light meal, meditation, and a review of his electronic mail, which had accumulated to an unreasonable degree during his absence from duty. He slept well and resumed his duties as normal the next morning.

Spock observed within 36 hours that the doctor appeared to be avoiding him. However, McCoy also resumed his position and duties, so presumably his score on the psych battery had proven adequate. From McCoy’s behavior, Spock inferred the doctor had decided to opt for a distant bonding and impersonal assistance during pon farr. Something deep inside Spock whispered with a vague ache of loss, but he efficiently compartmentalized the feeling and banished it. As an afterthought, he also relegated their new bond to the a remote corner of his mind, shielding against it so he would not intrude on McCoy’s privacy either by reading or by transmitting unguarded thoughts.

And so it went; the Enterprise was rapidly swept up in intrigues involving an effort to retrieve the Romulans’ cloaking device, after which a steady series of retaliatory strikes preoccupied the entirety of Starfleet. The Enterprise kept the edge of the neutral zone hot, patrolling and skirmishing and waiting for the hornet’s nest they had stirred to settle. Spock and McCoy were both kept quite busy, each in his respective area.

*****

“Take a load off.” The captain’s voice in another section of the room where he was working alerted Spock that he was no longer alone. He straightened, belatedly noticing the strain in his back. He would have to notify Jim that he was present, pursuing an inventory of party supplies preparatory for a morale-raising event suggested by Lieutenant Uhura. Until Kirk arrived the forward lounge had been deserted except for Spock, who was hidden from view in a supply closet. The captain would believe he was alone.

“Don’t mind if I do.” McCoy was with the captain, then. He sounded relaxed, at ease-- and that note of comfort in the doctor’s voice stilled Spock when he would otherwise have emerged at once.

Spock remained indecisive regarding the doctor; an uneasy truce had formed between them in which both attempted to maintain a semblance of normality despite avoiding one another. He and McCoy had not spoken outside of curt phrases involving their duty for some weeks; Spock felt both pleasure and slight envy to hear that McCoy seemed to be adjusting so well to other friends than Spock.

“I swear my shirt-tail hasn’t touched my ass for a month.” Glass clinked and fluid gurgled. Kirk laughed, a regretful sound. “I’ve been wanting us to get together for a while to talk. I read your report on your abduction and captivity. It was pretty cut and dried.”

“Mmmmhm.” McCoy sounded wary; swallowing ensued. “Then I don’t see what there is to talk about.”

Spock would have frowned, if he were human. He had not been privy to McCoy’s report, and in fact had been unaware of its submission-- a distinct breach of protocol. As first officer, he was supposed to review all official documents involving crew activities and status. Usually he approved and signed them before passing them onto the captain, annotated to highlight matters of potential concern.

Of course, he could readily understand why McCoy had sought to bypass him in this case. Perhaps the report contained details McCoy would not wish Spock to know-- though he already knew a great deal for certain, and found it possible to infer much more. 

“You spent a lot of effort making that document safe for the higher-ups, Bones.” Kirk too swallowed, then sighed. His glass clicked against the table. 

“Wouldn’t want to burn their virgin eyes.” McCoy sounded remote, disinterested. Spock could picture him staring out the viewport, carefully composed-- but with his shoulders tight, his arms near to his body, self-protective. 

By all measures of propriety, Spock knew he should announce his presence before the conversation went further-- but he did not. Instead, he rearranged his position so he could maintain it without strain, silenced his communicator, then went still. If he remained silent, they were unlikely to discover his concealment and he could obtain critical information regarding his bondmate that would not otherwise be available to him.

“You said the first officer took you in and you exchanged medical services for his protection-- but when you materialized, you certainly weren’t wearing a set of scrubs. That outfit you had on made Marlena Moreau’s look tasteful and chaste. What really happened over there, Bones?” Kirk made the question sound offhand, as if he didn’t intend to press-- though Spock knew his concern was such that he would, if he believed it would yield results. 

“I also traded sex for personal safety and for the chance to treat injured crewmen who were reluctant to turn to their own medical staff,” McCoy responded, tart. “Obviously.”

They went silent for a few moments, drinking.

“Then the other Spock… wanted…?” Kirk ventured, hesitant. 

McCoy barked a wry laugh. “Let’s just say half-Vulcans in that universe don’t embrace an ideal of restrained chastity.” A sharp thump ensued, likely his glass impacting against the bar as he set it aside. “I’ve passed Geoff’s psych battery, Jim; I’m not going to collapse into sudden, hysterical shreds of victimized dysfunction.”

“You’re avoiding Spock.”

“That’s how he wants it.” McCoy laughed again, joyless. “He’s made very different personal choices than the mirror Spock, Jim. You’re as familiar with this version’s sexual hang-ups as anybody. I think he’d rather be set on fire than take a lover. Seeing me is difficult for him now. I’m a reminder of any number of things he doesn’t want to think about.”

Spock shifted involuntarily, stung by McCoy’s bleak tone. 

“The duplicate was less like our Spock than he seemed.”

“Mmm.” McCoy temporized again. “In some ways.”

“M’Benga said your psych scores weren’t consistent with prolonged sexual duress.” Jim paused, and when he resumed, his tone was careful, even delicate. “You didn’t… mind… what the other Spock did to you.”

“I figured you’d get around to that.” McCoy’s sounded resigned. “I don’t like to talk about myself. I’m a private man. But you’re my friend, you’re Spock’s friend… you’re our captain. I guess if anybody deserves to know… _needs_ to know… but I want this off the damn record, Jim. If I talk, you never utter another peep about this, you understand me? Especially not to our Spock. I don’t think he’s capable of understanding.”

Spock grimaced tightly, but remained still. The human psyche often irrationally dictated concealment of crucial details from those who most needed to hear them. In his own defense against charges of eavesdropping, he believed this was such a case; knowing what McCoy held hidden might prove beneficial for them both. At worst, he could conceal the knowledge and refuse to allow it to influence his actions.

“I’m a vault, Bones,” Jim promised, patient. “I can see you need someone to talk to. Tell me.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at Spock. Don’t try to deny it.” McCoy’s voice sharpened. “Hell, half the crew carries a torch for the damned hobgoblin. You tell me you wouldn’t jump at a little low-hanging fruit on that particular branch, Jim, and I’ll call you a liar.”

“I’d go for that fruit just like Dr. Sevrin did in Eden,” Kirk confessed. 

“Ha. Good analogy. I just haven’t dropped dead. Yet.” The sound of pouring interrupted their words for a moment. Spock used the pause to parse what he had heard. He’d been aware McCoy had learned to take pleasure in physical intimacy with the other Spock, but the revelation of McCoy’s prior attraction to him came as a surprise. Unlike some members of the crew (Kirk included), McCoy had hidden his feelings well. 

Fascinating.

McCoy continued. “At first they thought they could keep me in the brig and use me under guard in sickbay whenever there was a heavy patient load. I thought it was a good idea, until the first time they actually put me in there to work.” He paused.

“That wasn’t a medical bay, Jim; it was a torture chamber. The other doctor… he wasn’t tending victims from the accident in Engineering. He was busy vivisecting a crewman. Dissecting him while he was still alive, without the benefit of an anesthetic. There was a live video feed available for the entire crew! I tried to stop him.” McCoy hesitated. “He turned on me. He was a savage! He meant to kill me for questioning what he was doing. I had to stick his own scalpel in his eye, or he’d have flayed _me._ It was self-defense-- and defending that poor bastard on the table. Anyway, Spock-- their Spock-- turned up in the middle of the fracas and dragged me off by one arm. He said if I wanted to live, I’d enter his protective custody and give him whatever he wanted. He’d already melded with me to find out about the transfer from our universe. He knew all my secrets.” 

Kirk made a sympathetic noise, letting McCoy choose his own pace. 

“You want the gory details, I know. Fine. I tried to act indifferent… to lie back and let him take what he wanted and be done with it, but he wasn’t satisfied with that. I’m in my forties, Jim-- but I came eight damn times that night, and I never managed half that many in a similar span before, not even when I was a randy teenager. He got inside my mind and made it happen. Direct biochemical, bioelectric synaptic manipulation. Holy shit.” McCoy sounded awed, almost… reverent. 

Spock stifled a flare of some hot, angry emotion-- perhaps a human would have called it jealousy. 

“Our Spock doesn’t choose to be a sexual being, but that one fucked the hell out of me. None of that uptight business about ‘once every seven years.’” McCoy’s voice thickened with self-consciousness. “Every damn day when he got off duty, he came home to me for sex. It wasn’t vanilla sex, either. Shit. I found out after a while he was taking fucking videos of it all, Jim. He showed our Spock some of the mild stuff to prove he hadn’t tortured me with the sex, and Spock just sat there like a stuffed frog watching it all and said he’d made his point. Calm as a frozen fucking pond. Jesus. But he didn’t show him everything.” 

McCoy laughed, sounding bitter. “No, he didn’t show our Spock the really kinky stuff. And trust me, there was plenty of it-- the bastard was damned creative. Since you’re so all-fired curious, I may as well tell you.” McCoy tried to sound offhand, but couldn’t manage it; Spock could not even begin to classify the mixture of resentment and longing in his tone. 

“He’d pierce one of my nipples on camera, or work his whole hand into me, or fuck me with his tongue for hours on end while I whimpered and pleaded to come, or mix in just enough pain along with the pleasure to hit the bridge point that sent me right out of my mind-- once he even let me fuck _him._ Those were the recordings he shipped off to his own doctor on a daily basis, wrapped up in ribbons, with a nice engraved card saying ‘This could be happening to you.’ It didn’t do a lot to make me win any popularity contests with the rest of the crew, I tell ya. My counterpart has a fucking nasty temper when he’s provoked, and he doesn’t give a good goddam who he takes it out on.”

Jim hesitated for a long time, as though he did not know how to respond. When he finally did, his tone was subdued. “Your report claimed Spock melded with you to ensure silent communication that would allow your mutual escape and survival.”

“That was pure bullshit for the brass. I knew you wouldn’t buy it.” The dry laugh was back. “Starfleet doesn’t know from mind-melds. A meld, a bond-- it’s all the same mumbo-jumbo to them, thanks to the Vulcan Silences. Our Spock bonded with me-- a permanent marriage bond. He did it because his duplicate forced him to, that’s the long and short of it. The other Spock had a theory that events resonate between the two universes and keep them roughly aligned. If our Spock was bonded to me, he believed it would put a significant amount of quantum pressure on his own universe to adjust and remain parallel. His own doctor would be forced to bond with him. Don’t ask me why he wanted that psychotic motherfucker so much, Jim; he just _did_. It was like an obsession with him. So he made the bonding a condition of our freedom.”

“Can’t you have it removed?”

“I looked into that. The other Spock warned me any removal attempt was likely to fry one or both of our brains. All the evidence I can dig up concurs. Spock’s stuck with me if he doesn’t want that incredible fucking mind of his turned to mush and leaking out his ears. At least he won’t go berserk or die when his next ‘time’ rolls around, eh? And I’ll finally--” McCoy fell silent. 

“You’re human. You can’t get by on once every seven years, Bones.”

McCoy sighed, explosive. “I made do with a lot less sex than that for the first decade after I caught Jocelyn with Clay, and that’s a fact. I’ll be fine.”

“You should talk to Spock about this.”

“Bullshit, Jim. Indulging in sex and intimacy isn’t how our Spock chooses to live his life. He’s fundamentally different from his counterpart in that way. You think I want to be a burden on him? Wandering around mooning after him like poor Chapel? Forcing him into bed knowing he’s only performing to satisfy some kind of medieval-style marital debt? Fuck that shit; I’ve still got some pride. Outside of pon farr, our Spock turns up his nose at any and all potential mates. He didn’t want me when I was at my best. Why the hell would he want his counterpart’s sloppy seconds?”

Spock guessed the rasping sound that ensued was Jim scrubbing his hand over his face. “Bones, you’re not sloppy seconds to him. You know better than that. He wouldn’t rest until he saw you safely home.”

“Safe home is one thing. Acting like we’re married is another. It could be good. You know it. I know it. Hell, even the other Spock knows it. Does our version know it? Does he care? Would he even be tempted? Not damned likely. It’s part of who he is, Jim.” Spock heard the distinctive hollow sound of a cork sealing a bottle. “I’ve told you what you needed to hear. Let it go.”

Spock remained still as the two of them packed up and left, then exited rapidly and contrived to make it seem he had been busy elsewhere all along. He had much to consider.

*****

Unfortunately, even after extensive contemplation, Spock remained uncertain what McCoy meant by the indefinite pronoun “it” or the nebulous adjective “good.” Perhaps he meant a romantic relationship, or perhaps he merely meant sex. As for a marriage… they _were_ married, to all practical purposes. As far as Spock could tell, they were neither angry with one another nor incapable of working together when necessary. Though they did not share quarters or a bed, that did not seem an insurmountable obstacle to their being termed a married couple-- at least not by Vulcan standards. 

The doctor was correct in one assumption; it was true that Spock did not regard sex as a necessary component of day-to-day life, or even of life with a bondmate, if the contact was not desirable to both partners. Spock could not conceive it possible that McCoy would immediately desire sexual activity with someone so reminiscent of the mirror Spock, who had essentially forced the doctor to submit to rigorous, frequent, unorthodox sex-- apparently including much rougher sex than Spock had previously suspected. 

Eventually sexual contact would become necessary for Spock’s survival; it would be prudent to work up to it gradually before the _pon farr_ forced matters to a hasty, brutal conclusion. Yet before romantic or sexual intimacy could develop between them naturally, Spock perceived, he and McCoy needed to become more comfortable with one another, both socially and romantically. At present, those goals posed considerable difficulties.

In an effort to overcome McCoy’s avoidance, Spock made efforts to spend time in proximity to the doctor, if it could be managed without an overt display of his intention to do so. He found himself curious to study signs of attraction he might have missed before and differences in McCoy’s behavior based on recent events. He was continually puzzled by the disparity between McCoy’s words to Jim-- that it might be desirable to act as if he and Spock were married in all senses of the word-- and his apparent desire to avoid Spock as much as possible. The contradiction left Spock in a position of great confusion.

His conflicting observations troubled him, preventing him from taking decisive action. McCoy did not seek Spock out in order to argue with him, though he still displayed his sharp tongue with others when provoked. He appeared easy and unaffected around the rest of the crew, especially Kirk, but he had developed a consistent blind spot centered firmly on Spock, who apparently did not exist unless circumstances directly required McCoy to take notice of him. When he did so, he was polite and efficient, briskly taking the first reasonable opportunity to end the interaction.

Satisfactory conclusions proved elusive, as was often the case when Spock dealt with the unpredictable variables of human nature. Perhaps time would eventually grant him a better opportunity to alter the status quo.

*****

“We’ll get them on the next round, Len!” The voice was female, and it belonged to Yeoman Tonia Barrows. Spock was keenly conscious of the captain’s gaze resting on him over their chessboard; his game was badly off, and he suspected Kirk knew why. 

The game being played on the other side of the recreation room was simple, but for a Vulcan it was a highly distasteful activity, pointless almost to the point of incomprehensibility. It consisted of a large plastic sheet emblazoned with rows of colored circles and a randomizer that selected a body part and a color. When the randomizer was activated, team members had to shift the indicated body part to the indicated color, evading the bodies of the others with whom they were intertwined. The central rule of the game, at least as far as Spock could tell, was to contact the plastic sheet only with hands and feet. When this no longer proved practicable, the pile of tangled humans collapsed and extracted themselves, winners jeering at the losers, and a new round began.

Spock found it objectionably similar in sexual intention, if not in practice, to some of the games he had seen in process aboard the ISS Enterprise.

The current writhing pile of intermeshed limbs had just collapsed after Chekov proved incapable of successfully transferring his right foot to a green circle, and Yeoman Barrows was firmly planted in McCoy’s lap, giggling in a manner Spock found shrill and offensive. McCoy had joined the game despite protesting that he was too old when she insisted her team was short one member. However, despite his initial reluctance, the doctor seemed to be enjoying himself. His presence in Spock’s mind was muted, effaced-- but a distinct sense of amusement emanated from him when Spock allowed himself to become aware of their connection.

“Checkmate,” Kirk said softly, and Spock stifled a sigh. He had seen it coming six moves ago after he unwisely transferred his bishop into a clever trap. 

“If it is no inconvenience to you, I will retire.” Spock kept his voice smooth and even. 

“It’s a children’s party game, Spock. It’s harmless.” Kirk’s displayed remarkable discretion in the lowered volume of his voice. 

Spock raised a doubting brow at him, replacing the chess pieces in their box. “Nevertheless.” His response was safely ambiguous while evading agreement. Laughing, McCoy lifted Barrows and set her on her feet. 

“Thanks, Len.” She beamed up at the doctor, who smiled back. 

Len? Spock still had not received an invitation to use either the full first name or the affectionate diminutive for his bondmate, and resisted using them even in the silence of his mind. Briefly he pictured himself just beginning to feel the fever of plak tow, stark naked with McCoy submitted beneath him, formally addressing his own spouse: “Please, Lieutenant Commander, move your leg three centimeters to the left to aid me in achieving more efficient penis-to-prostate stimulation.”

Spock’s jaw tightened. Such thoughts were illogical; he would require meditation to purge this unworthy emotion from his system.

“It’s called ‘jealousy,’” Jim said, even softer. “And it might help if McCoy knew about it.”

“I do not experience jealousy,” Spock denied. Perhaps-- perhaps-- he might privately confess to admiring the bright shade of blue in the doctor’s eyes, or the trim line of his ribs and the jut of his hip, or even the dexterity and skill of McCoy’s hands, if such things were given to him freely. They were not. Thus he would confess to nothing, most particularly not to this peculiarly human flare of envy, of anger, and of sadness. 

“Just as you say, Mr. Spock.” But now Kirk’s eyes were dimmed as well, and Spock knew another burden had been added to the captain’s list of cares. 

“We will play again tomorrow,” Spock affirmed. “Goodnight, Jim.”

If it seemed strange that he could address his superior officer so familiarly when his own husband had not extended him that courtesy… perhaps it was, but he would not behave more formally toward Kirk. Spock would not surrender even a single gesture of friendly intimacy with the captain while McCoy allowed bright-eyed young yeomen to writhe on his body in a blatant attempt to entice his interest.

*****

Strangely, the incident with Yeoman Barrows served to make Spock hyper-aware of McCoy’s physical presence: the doctor tapping his fingertips against a table during a department heads’ briefing. The way McCoy’s fingers curled around his tray in the cafeteria. The rare, startling apparition of the doctor’s smile-- and the even rarer sound of his laughter freezing Spock where he stood half a shuttle bay away. 

McCoy preyed on Spock’s mind far more than T’Pring ever had, though their bond was suppressed to a similar degree. Spock had, after all, never witnessed T’Pring with Stonn, never felt the prickling pangs of jealousy over her interactions with others. ...Had never noticed the curve of her lumbosacral region and traced it with his eyes, longing to follow the path of his gaze with the palm of his hand.

Spock snatched his gaze away from the doctor, displeased with himself, and forced himself to focus on his lyre, deliberately selecting a difficult passage. He succeeded so well in challenging himself he lost track of his surroundings and nearly jumped when McCoy appeared in front of him. He switched to practice arpeggios instead, simple chords he could play without thinking.

“Jim’s got his matchmaking hat on,” McCoy said without preamble, confusing Spock, who glanced at the captain’s bare head in bewilderment. “I mean he’s assigned us to work closely together on the Myriapod project. Guess he doesn’t know trying to force us together is about as pointless as installing a screen door on a submarine.” McCoy made eye contact with a visible effort, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. 

Spock deduced McCoy meant the captain was hoping to encourage them to become more intimate through enforced proximity. Well-intended, perhaps, but any effort seemed likely to prove as futile as McCoy estimated. 

“I have no reluctance to work closely with you. You are a competent officer.”

Predictably, his compliment did not appear to have the desired effect on McCoy, who folded his arms over his chest and glared. 

“Damning me with faint praise, eh Spock?” 

“It was not my intention.” Spock took refuge in austerity. 

That, too, was the wrong thing to say. Perhaps there was no right one. McCoy scowled at him. “Sorry to intrude on your superior mission-completing abilities, but if they’re really that great, then I guess you can compensate for us mere mortals you get stuck working with.”

Spock merely gazed at McCoy with a raised eyebrow until the man relented, turning his scowl elsewhere. “We’ve got a briefing in Jim’s ready room in twenty minutes. He asked me to let you know.”

Kirk had requested personal delivery of a message when an electronic mail would have sufficed? McCoy was likely correct regarding the attempt to manipulate them into closer contact. “I will be there,” Spock said simply. 

Perhaps it was a good sign that McCoy was behaving in a combative manner; at any rate, it represented a welcome return to the mode of interaction Spock had become accustomed to long since.

*****

“You’re right on time. Take a seat,” Kirk greeted when Spock strode into the briefing. McCoy was already there, slouched in a chair with a scowl on his face. 

“Mr. Spock, before we begin, I want you to know I had no part in arranging this,” the doctor said abruptly, and Spock realized McCoy’s scowl was meant for Jim.

Jim scowled back, a brief flash of annoyance, before smoothing his features. “I’m afraid I had little part in it myself, gentlemen. Admiral Komack reviewed the first contact data and issued our mission parameters: to bring the Myriapodans into the Federation so they will not be enslaved by the Romulans.” He activated the central viewer, which began to play a recordings from the surface of the planet, including scenery, flora and fauna, and natives. Spock made a mental note to review the most relevant segments later.

“Myriapod culture is reminiscent in some ways to Laputa from _Gulliver’s Travels._ That is to say, it has a distinct hierarchy, and persons of high status are considered too important to listen or speak without the intervention of an intermediary.” 

Kirk kept a careful eye on McCoy’s reactions. “Myriapodans have a high telepathic capacity, and each high status individual has a servant of lower status who accomplishes the actual interactions. That servant consults with servants of other high-ranking Myriapods, then communicates information to his or her master, who relays thoughts back through the servant. Essentially they function like Laputan flappers.” Kirk keyed up a sequence demonstrating this process and turned up the volume; Spock and McCoy watched as a brief discussion was conducted.

“The first contact team found it very challenging,” Kirk warned. “The Myriapodans expect this process to be swift and silent, which our Starfleet team could not accomplish given its limitations. The only ones who speak in formal Myriapod society are the servants; the masters are considered simply too important to exert themselves until all matters have been threshed out and agreed. Thus the contact party were all regarded as low-status persons and their communications were not taken seriously.”

Kirk leaned back in his chair to regard them both expectantly. “Komack assigned us this mission because he was aware we have a Vulcan aboard. He assumed Mr. Spock would undertake the role of our ambassador and that I would act as his servant, consulting with him and making decisions based on his input. However, given that Mr. Spock already has a telepathic bond with a different crewman….” Kirk spread his hands as if it were all quite self-explanatory.

Spock raised a brow, at once perceiving the source both of Kirk’s choice and of McCoy’s exasperation with it. “You believe if Doctor McCoy and I comprise the ambassadorial party, then our mission may be accomplished with greater efficiency, as we already share a permanent connection.”

“Precisely.” Kirk cleared his throat. McCoy stared grimly at the recording and did not speak. “I suggest it would make more sense for the superior officer to act in the role of the servant. However, as you may note, servants’ duties are not limited to communication….”

Spock turned his attention to the recording, blinking as the meeting reached a recess and servants began to provide a variety of personal services-- hand-feeding their masters, giving them drinks, adjusting their clothing, and providing other less savory personal courtesies. 

“I am amenable to undertaking this duty,” Spock said, maintaining a serene expression. “My experiences as an ambassador’s son should be particularly useful.”

“Damn it, Spock!” McCoy exploded. “You just don’t want me to be the one who’s allowed to talk! I--,” McCoy flushed suddenly. “I got used to doing most of those things back on the ISS Enterprise. Plus a few more, as you damn well know.” 

“Then you both agree to undertake the mission.” Kirk interrupted McCoy before he could work up a full head of steam. “I knew I could count on the two of you.” His tone made the words an order, and McCoy subsided, visibly grinding his teeth.

“Doctor McCoy,” Spock said, biting back the ‘Leonard’ that wanted to issue from his lips, “I will most assuredly take your opinions under advisement. If I did not propose to do so, there would be no advantage in the captain assigning us as an ambassadorial pair; our telepathic link would not be of value.”

McCoy gave Jim a long, flat look and stood up. “I’m a doctor, not a diplomat,” he muttered. “Damn it, Jim, this is gonna be one of those missions full of _surprises._ I can feel it.” He bounced irritably on the balls of his feet.

“Who better than my two best crewmen to handle it, then?” Kirk clapped McCoy lightly on the shoulder. “If things go south, you can call for beam-out. Brief yourselves; the first contact records have been transferred to your consoles. You’ll beam down first thing tomorrow.”

*****

Spock was nearly ready for beam-down when McCoy bustled into the transporter room, fussing at Jim as if to make up for the upcoming enforced silence-- though he would be able to air his views at great length via their bond. Spock suspected he would take every advantage of the opportunity.

“If we wind up dead, I swear to all the powers that be, I will find a way to come back and haunt you for this, Jim.” Despite his sharp words, McCoy seemed cheerful. He wore heavy floor-length beige robes reminiscent of Myriapod garments, as did Spock.

“I’d expect nothing less.” The captain smirked at McCoy. 

“Doctor,” Spock greeted McCoy formally. “A few preliminaries are required, if you would accommodate me.”

McCoy stepped in front of him with a huff, lifting his chin. “Do your worst.”

Spock raised a brow, then slowly stepped forward, lifting his hand and considering the best placement-- giving McCoy time to acclimate to the idea and letting his own conflicting emotions settle. It had been a long while since he indulged in the touch of his bondmate’s thoughts. 

Spock settled his fingertips on the doctor’s face, though it wasn’t strictly necessary for telepathic contact between bonded mates. _Please assure me you hear and comprehend._

McCoy’s face was calm, but inside he was a seething mass of contradictory emotions, too many for Spock to sort through swiftly. Irritation-- shame-- anger-- desire. Impossibly human.

“Of course I do,” McCoy huffed. The doctor struggled to suppress the welter of feelings he was experiencing, but merely succeeded in focusing them more tightly; Spock could easily perceive them, if he tried-- and could not entirely ignore them no matter how much he hoped to remain politely ethical in the matter.

_”Please respond silently in order to test our fitness to perform the mission.”_

_”As if **you** couldn’t hear **me.** ”_

Spock nodded once. “Captain, we are prepared, assuming the doctor can remember not to speak aloud.” He made himself drop his hand and reduced the channel between them until McCoy’s intensity was manageable inside his mind. He hoped the doctor would grow calmer as he became used to the open bond.

“I’ll be as silent as the grave, Jim.” McCoy frowned at Spock, but a note of affection permeated the bond and belied the fierceness of his expression. “I’m going to try to look at this as a chance to get in some well-deserved rest and relaxation.”

“Famous last words, doctor,” Jim warned, but his smile was genuine as they took their positions on the platform.

*****

“Welcome, ambassadors.” A Myriapod rippled forward from the waiting swarm, clad in a strangely textured beige garment shaped like a horse blanket. Its clothing did little to mask its multitude of legs. “This is Ambassador Plenipes, who wishes me to welcome you to our planet.” It indicated the being behind it, their bodies partly entwined. 

_”Looks like a millipede,”_ McCoy was distinctly amused; some of his nervous response to Spock’s presence in his mind was dissipating. _“Tangled around each other like kudzu on a power line. Should we go on all fours?”_

“This is Ambassador McCoy,” Spock answered the Myriapod, coolly polite. “He looks forward to negotiating your species’ entry into the Federation.”

 _“If that’s an example of how faithful the translations are going to be, this could get dull for me extremely quickly, Spock.”_ McCoy took refuge in sarcasm, but he silently inclined his head toward the ambassadorial welcoming party by perhaps half a degree-- admirably calculated to give greeting without indicating excessive interest--, and was answered by a similar gesture from Plenipes.

Spock let McCoy feel a flicker of his approval as they stepped forward, accompanying the Myriapodans toward a natural amphitheater nearby. His response seemed to please the doctor, who let a phrase of music start to hum pleasantly beneath the surface of his mind. McCoy strolled along behind Spock idly, without any indication of hurry or purpose, and again Spock was struck by his sense for appropriate behavior-- he had indeed studied the Myriapodan masters with care. 

They settled into their portion of the seating area, and Spock inspected the bowls and platters of food set on low tables before them. They represented a variety of fresh leaves and fruits. Spock scanned them quickly; the food might not be particularly interesting to McCoy’s palate, but Spock and the Doctor could both eat without coming to harm. 

_“No wonder Jim was so determined to fob this one off on us,”_ McCoy laughed to himself-- the sound a bright sparkle of amusement in Spock’s mind. _“He hates eating leaves like most people hate going to the dentist.”_

“Greetings, Federation Ambassador McCoy,” Plenipes’s servant spoke. “We are pleased to have your Federation represented among us. In all our imaginings, we did not expect to contact life from other worlds--”

The afternoon stretched long, filled with introductions and historical stage-setting, to which Spock responded with rote courtesies, hardly needing to consult with McCoy. Such things were held necessary by Myriapodan cultural traditions; Spock took care to make necessary recordings for future reference.

Of more practical interest to him was the behavior of the Myriapodans themselves; he had not expected them to be such a tactile culture. The masters and their servants seemed constantly entwined, and when someone had to leave or return, that individual walked right over the others instead of going around. Servants held up leaves or fruits and the masters nibbled delicately, their pincerlike jaws moving so rapidly Spock’s eyes could scarcely follow the motion. 

Nutritional interludes took place at frequent intervals, and each time Spock carefully held up a lettuce-like leaf for McCoy to nibble. It seemed safer than offering him the fruit.

Spock wondered where he and McCoy would be accommodated for the night; there were no apparent shelters in sight. In fact, the beam-down location gave no evidence whatsoever that the Myriapodans had achieved any sort of technological advancement, though the mission briefing indicated they had developed the knowledge necessary to achieve nuclear fusion and a handful of other dangerous innovations. It seemed the initial contact party had comported themselves so poorly by native standards they had been deliberately excluded from gathering more than cursory knowledge of the culture.

Spock was so preoccupied with his speculations that he picked up a piece of fruit for McCoy without realizing what he had done, then was startled when the doctor’s warm lips brushed his fingers. A glow of arousal zinged through him and he jerked his hand away reflexively. An unexpected sonic vibration followed hot on the heels of the incident, warm and resonant, a note that harmonized precisely with the electric frequency of Spock’s arousal response. 

_“Sorry.”_ McCoy’s remorse flooded the bond-- but Spock was already distracted. The sound died away as soon as he regained control. 

“It is no matter,” Spock murmured for McCoy’s ears only, already consulting his tricorder. He was surprised to learn the Myriapodans had produced the sound by running their antennae along stiff guard hairs near the top of their thoraxes. The dignitary currently speaking continued without responding visibly to the sound.

 _“It would seem the Myriapodans are significantly more sensitive telepathically, or perhaps empathically, than the mission briefing indicated,”_ Spock warned McCoy.

 _“They sent that...? That little endorphin rush?”_ McCoy gestured helplessly. 

Spock straightened his back, resigned. _“No. They produced a sound in response to the chemical event you describe. ...It originated in my consciousness in response to your touch.”_

This time McCoy’s feelings spiked, and the Myriapodans sang again, a high, vibrant chime that echoed McCoy’s emotion perfectly. 

_“Shit.”_ McCoy flushed, embarrassment overwhelming the bright flow of pleasure in his mind. _“It’s talking to you, Spock.”_

Spock turned to find Plenipes’ servant regarding them without rancor. “Servant Spock. Shall we call a recess so you may confer with your ambassador?”

“I apologize for my momentary distraction,” Spock said smoothly. “Such emotional communications are normal between those who share a permanent telepathic bond, as the ambassador and I do. Please pay it no mind. We are prepared to continue.” 

“We near the end of our diurnal cycle. A recess is called.” The servant subsided as Plenipes flowed up on its multitude of legs, curling around its servant and regarding Spock and McCoy through its multifaceted eyes. It strummed its foremost two appendages back against its thorax, making a sound like a violin tremolo. 

The servant bowed, bringing its huge head to the level of Spock’s knees. “You and your master have comported yourself most decorously, Servant Spock. Plenipes has observed the two of you are bonded as mates in the same manner as servants and masters among our kind. It communicates its congratulations on your bond and expresses hopes for your bond’s endurance and deepening. I will conduct you to your lodging so you may twine together and commune.”

 _“At least they aren’t homophobic.”_ McCoy muttered.

“Thank you, ambassadors and servants. We accept your gracious gift of time.” Spock hoped there would be privacy enough in their lodging that McCoy might contrive to feed himself. 

He was destined for disappointment. The Myriapodans led them across the planetary surface toward a steep mountain range. At its feet, a cavernous opening led down into a recessed chamber layered with more of the beige material the natives wore-- some sort of natural fiber like spider silk. As honored guests they took their place in a high-status area: next to the wall midway down, where they would neither be exposed to the elements nor the possibility of growing wet if water collected at the base of the declivity. 

There was no privacy, and no walls, only layers of beige silk supporting a writhing mass of Myriapodans. McCoy bounced once on his feet as he hesitated just inside the entrance, but gave no other external reaction. Spock sensed his internal shudder nonetheless. The air inside was humid and carried a dank, earthy smell with acrid undertones: doubtless scents associated with their hosts. The walls and floors were springy to the touch and gave off a faint bioluminescence that enabled adequate night vision as they descended. 

Spock accepted a pouch from Plenipes’s servant, finding plenty of food and water stored inside.

“You may choose your resting place wherever you will. You are welcome to twine with us or to remain together. Our talks will resume when the sun returns.” The Myriapodan scuttled away and vanished into a heap of seething legs and carapaces. 

_“Charitable of him.”_ McCoy freighted the thought with considerable sarcasm. _“Spock, I hope you don’t intend--”_

 _“We are in perfect agreement for this isolated instance, doctor.”_ Some of the Myriapodans appeared to be preparing to engage in reproductive activity despite being impossibly entangled with the entire community. “I suggest we withdraw to a more private location.”

They finally found a tentlike area where the layers of natural silk separated, attaching to the dirt wall at different elevations. They took shelter there, perhaps six or ten feet from the nearest concentration of their hosts.

 _“No wonder nobody’s sleeping here. There’s a nasty draft.”_ McCoy made no move to leave, though.

“The air will be fresh.” As Spock spoke, a resonant note arose from the seething mass of Myriapodans; another soon followed. By the time Spock sat down and opened the pouch of food and drink, the noise was such a cacophony he could scarcely hear himself think. McCoy grimaced. 

_“Are they going to go on like this all night?”_ The doctor put his palms over his ears as the volume increased. _“I suppose it’s better than being chased with homicidal intent, but I don’t think we’re going to get much rest.”_

Spock suspected McCoy was right. He took a fruit for himself, then extended one to the doctor. McCoy eyed him for a long moment before extending his head delicately to take it, carefully avoiding Spock’s fingers. _“You know, they’re probably expecting us to… twine. However we’re supposed to accomplish that without dozens of legs and bodies the length of a warp nacelle.”_ McCoy took another fruit. _“I wish the demands of this mission weren’t something you find so... distasteful.”_

 _“I am not averse to physical contact with you.”_ Spock glanced at the entangled Myriapodans, who were taking ‘not averse to physical contact’ to disquieting levels. Likely the conjunction assisted them in maintaining an acceptable body temperature during the cool of night. “Quite the opposite.”

 _“As if.”_ McCoy grasped Spock’s wrist through his uniform before taking the next fruit. _“Hold still, damn it. I’m trying not to molest you, for fucksake.”_ The thrumming noise of the Myriapodans left no further room for silence; it had become constant, the pitch frenetic and discordant. It vibrated through Spock’s body insistently through the walls, floor, and atmosphere.

 _“Why?”_ Spock inquired, genuinely curious. McCoy blinked at him, the yellow juice of the soft fruit gleaming on his lips. 

_“Because you obviously don’t want me to, you green-blooded--”_

Sometimes an object lesson was the most effective instructional technique. Therefore, Spock contradicted McCoy by lifting one finger to the doctor’s face and wiping away a trickle of juice, then offering his finger for McCoy to lick. 

McCoy’s mind fragmented briefly, spinning with stunned indecision. Then his tongue flickered out and lapped up the juice. Arousal blossomed through them both, hot and sweet.

Impossibly the Myriapodan song intensified, the humming air tingling around Spock and McCoy. 

_“I do not dislike this at all, doctor.”_

_“If you’re asking me to suck your fingers, you can damn well call me Leonard, Spock.”_

_“A satisfactory invitation, Leonard.”_ Spock did not intend to allow his satisfaction to slip, but McCoy sat back, eyeing him narrowly. 

_“You’ve been waiting for me to ask you that?” The doctor eyed him with disbelief. “Damn it, Spock, we’ve been on a first name basis ever since I came aboard the Enterprise.”_

_“We have not, Leonard,”_ Spock corrected him mildly. _“You have never before invited me to use your given name.”_

McCoy rolled his eyes and leaned forward, opening his mouth. _“Damned stuffy Vulcans!”_ Nuzzling slow, wet kisses against Spock’s fingertips didn’t mute McCoy’s thoughts at all.

Spock raised a brow, thinking of his counterpart, who had definitely not been ‘stuffy.’ Given his relative inexperience, Spock could hardly provide the same intensity of pleasure McCoy had described receiving from his doppelganger. He had a fundamental grasp of sexual theory, but no practical--

McCoy’s tongue drove rational thought straight out of his mind, curling around his fingers. Spock gasped, eyes closing; if this was what McCoy had meant by saying marriage could be good between them, it definitely _was_ good. Better than good-- maddening, addictive, perfect. 

Acting on instinct, Spock pulled McCoy closer. McCoy hummed approval around his fingers, arms sliding around Spock, and he shifted his hips to align their bodies.

Pleasure rippled through Spock as their legs tangled, bringing his erection against McCoy’s hip-- and again the Myriapodans sang, each new note coming into closer harmony with the others. The whole nest was empathically joined, each individual resonating with the others, Spock realized. 

He succumbed, rocking against McCoy, scenting the clean smell of McCoy’s hair. Leonard’s mind was open-- rich and hot and lazy; contentment purred through him as he enjoyed giving Spock pleasure. 

Unthinking, Spock groped for McCoy’s free hand, raising it to his own lips. He closed his eyes and brushed his mouth and hands along the length of McCoy’s fingers, trembling to the core of himself-- savoring the warmth and texture of them, aware of their fine bones and muscles, honed by the delicate skill of McCoy’s craft-- but he was halted in moments by the sudden sense of bittersweetness welling through Leonard’s mind.

Spock opened his eyes, dismayed, but McCoy shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said very softly, his words all but lost under the humming of the Myrapodians. “He… the other Spock… he never did that with me.” McCoy flushed, embarrassed. “He did everything else you can think of, but he never kissed me in the Vulcan way.”

“Then he was a fool,” Spock murmured, and resumed. McCoy watched him, eyes wide with wonder, as Spock explored and kissed his hands. Human hands were not so sensitive as Vulcan ones-- but Spock sensed this visible expression of Spock’s affection and desire was very important to Leonard.

Spock slowly expanded his exploration, nuzzling along McCoy’s neck and enjoying the scent of him. The doctor purred into his ear, communicating approval and pleasure. McCoy gently worked his hand inside the waist of Spock’s trousers, moving slowly so Spock could stop him-- but he had no desire to do so. Spock gave a low hum of his own, nuzzling a kiss against Leonard’s ear.

“I thought you wouldn’t want this,” McCoy gasped as Spock licked along the shell of his ear, tracing the gentle, rounded curve. It might be less efficient at gathering sound vibrations than his own, but it had its aesthetic appeal nonetheless. “You never seemed to want a sexual relationship with anyone before.”

“I did not have a bondmate before.” The humming of the Myriapodans pulsed in a lazy, sensual rhythm; without thinking, both men adjusted their gentle undulations to match it.

“Sorry about that.”

“I am not.” Spock gazed at him, serene. “It is the Vulcan way to express physical desire only when logic and feeling unite.”

McCoy chuckle. “So you’re admitting you feel affection for me, but you’re claiming it’s all perfectly logical.”

“It would be illogical to reject something this… good.” Spock said, and McCoy smiled, eyes soft. His hand tightened and moved just a little faster. 

Spock sighed with bliss, nestling his head against McCoy’s throat and giving himself over to the doctor’s skilled touch.

*****

Dawn light filtered through the layers of nest-webbing, reaching Spock’s eyes where he lay with McCoy tucked against him. The Myriapodan song was a low, resonant hum, one perfect note now that everyone had reached accord. The writhing mass of bodies had stilled and seemed almost a single being.

Spock gently detached himself from McCoy, leaving all his gear behind, and sought the surface in order to deal with certain inevitable matters of biology. It would not be polite to soil the Myriapodan nest. 

The sun was rising, bright light gradually strengthening behind the mountains. Spock sought a convenient tree trunk some distance from the nest and utilized it. He felt loose and relaxed, well-rested. The sounds of the planet were pleasant-- insects, birds, and the calls of small mammals. Perhaps he should have brought his tricorder and scanned the flora and fauna for future study--

“Well! Look what we have here.” The voice was familiar, but the tone… Spock stiffened, tucking himself away without turning. “Our baby-faced Vulcan. Bones, get over here. I found him.”

Kirk wore a sleeveless shirt with the ISS logo on the left chest and the gold sash of the mirror universe gleamed around his waist; Spock betrayed no surprise as he turned and gazed into the muzzle of a phaser. Kirk never wavered, and Spock was unwilling to wager his life on the likelihood of a stun setting.

The alternate doctor appeared swiftly, leering at him. He covered Spock over Kirk’s left shoulder. 

“Call for beam-out,” Kirk directed sharply. 

“McCoy to Scott.” Static answered the doctor, who scowled at the communicator. “McCoy to Scott-- he doesn’t answer, captain. I think we’ve moved past phase intersection.”

Kirk never took his eyes off Spock. “Then I want you to tranquilize him. I’m not taking any chances with this one.”

Spock watched McCoy sharply. The doctor was intelligent, but at least in Spock’s world, combat and tactical strategy were not his strongest skills. 

Sure enough, the doctor carelessly stepped into Kirk’s line of fire-- and Spock acted instantly, throwing himself aside, over the edge of a declivity in the land. It gave him only seconds, but they were all he needed to scurry into the concealment of thick brush.

“Damn it, doctor!” the captain snapped, furious. “If we’ve lost him, it’s the booth for you.”

“Shit,” McCoy swore. Spock wasted no time in rushing away. Kirk’s brilliance as a tactician was unparalleled; Spock would find it hard to outguess him. 

They would try to contain him swiftly, and if they failed, they would be quick to use the Myriapodans and his own McCoy against him. 

He took advantage of his greater speed and strength, swinging over a ravine on a tree limb-- not even Kirk would be able to follow, and it would take them time to circumvent the deep crease in the land.

“Spock to McCoy.” He spoke quietly into his communicator. “Doctor, we are under attack.”

“Hmmm, what?” McCoy still sounded groggy when he responded.

“Beam up to the Enterprise at once. Be advised the invaders are from the mirror universe. I saw Kirk and McCoy; their plan is to capture me and take me back to their continuum. I have evaded them for the present. Should I persist, it is likely they will come after you and attempt to hold you and our hosts hostage to persuade me to turn myself over to them.”

“Got it.” A pause ensued. “Spock, Scotty says the transporter signal is being jammed in our vicinity. It’ll take time to get a shuttle down, but Jim’s sending down three shuttlecraft full of security officers.”

“Set up a security perimeter at the entrance to the nest if you can persuade Plenipes--” Spock abruptly ran out of forest and brush, emerging onto a hillside of loose scree. A rock slid out from under his foot and sent him tumbling; he lost his communicator on impact. As he slid along the exposed slope, a stun beam lanced into the sliding rocks next to his thigh. Spock rolled to evade the incoming fire, randomizing his trajectory while also attempting to avoid the jagged stones and branches that jutted from the hillside. 

He had little confidence McCoy would be able to communicate effectively; the Myriapodans’ cultural taboos forbade him to make any requests or deliver information personally. 

The slide carried Spock back into the fringes of the woods. Scratched and filthy, he struggled to rise, ignoring pain from a twisted ankle. Since McCoy could not escape, he would have to return to the nest-- but now the mirror Kirk and McCoy were located between him and his goal. 

Spock gazed up into a tree-- they were very tall with thick lateral branches. If he was careful, he should be able to avoid the ground while making his way back toward the nest. Neither of his opponents were likely able to duplicate the feat; they might not think to expect it of him.

He began to shinny up the thick trunk, nails digging into the bark, and hoisted himself onto the first lateral branch. A bird scolded him, roused to sudden flight by his intrusion into its space. He sidestepped the nest with care, edging his way out until he could jump to the next tree. 

The birds would be a problem; Kirk, at least, would not miss the significance of their scolding. But it was the best of his options; the thick leaves and branches gave at least some cover from incoming fire. 

Spock moved as swiftly as he could, jumping between branches with reckless haste. He wasn’t sure what Jim would do with Leonard once he had him-- maybe give him to the other doctor for slow, agonizing disposal. 

As he drew near the nest, he recognized the whine of phaser fire and hastened his pace; when he neared the entry, he climbed to the top of the tree and cautiously gazed out. McCoy stood in the mouth of the tunnel, firing to hold the two mirror crewmen at bay. The alternate doctor peppered him with heavy fire, covering for Kirk, who was busy crawling through the brush to flank McCoy at a wide angle so he would be forced to retreat or be hit.

Leonard had both his own phaser in his hand and Spock’s hanging at his belt; that would give him a better chance of outlasting them. 

“I know you’re out there, Spock,” Kirk called suddenly, scanning the ground around him-- and the branches above, but fortunately Spock was now hidden from the ground below by the thick layers of leaves atop his tree. “Interphase is five minutes away. Come out or we’ll take McCoy and kill as many natives as we can before beaming out. I’ll give your McCoy back to my Spock… or maybe to my own doctor.” Kirk’s voice sharpened with amusement. “Which do you think would be worse, Commander?”

Spock scanned the sky but could see no sign of incoming shuttlecraft. He weighed his options. The timing of the shuttlecraft depended on where Enterprise was in orbit relative to their position. He could not inquire without his communicator.

A McCoy yelped, and for a moment Spock was not sure which of the two had been hit-- or how badly. Then his own doctor emerged slowly from the mouth of the cave with the alternate Spock behind him.

“Captain. Doctor.” The duplicate Spock spoke calmly, phaser pressed to the base of McCoy’s spine. “Do not fire. Commander Spock, you will show yourself at once, or I will shoot him myself.”

Would he? Given his theory of resonance between the universes… how greatly did his duplicate value the mirror McCoy? 

Spock did not care to gamble, given the stakes.

He slid his feet forward till he neared the end of a limb, then allowed it to sag beneath his weight until he judged it safe to vault to the forest floor.

“Sneaky bastard was up in the treetops,” the mirror Leonard snorted. “It figures.”

Behind Spock’s duplicate, Vulcans wearing coveralls began to pour out of the cave-- the alternate Spock’s private security force. 

“You lied regarding the interphase inhibitor,” Spock accused his double calmly.

“I did not. The captain and Doctor McCoy threatened Mr. Scott until he disabled the inhibitor I created in my universe, then made him monitor the two of you, waiting for you to leave your Enterprise together, thus removing yourself from the influence of your own interphase inhibitor.” The duplicate Spock eyed his Kirk calmly. “Quite ingenious. Who was to have custody of my double?”

“We planned to share him,” Kirk admitted, adjusting his gold sash and picking leaves and twigs out of his hair. 

“And the doctor from this universe would be eliminated-- after a suitable interval of torture, no doubt.” Mirror Spock leveled a tolerant look at his McCoy. “You are ruthless.” His voice warmed with approval. “Truly, you would make a fitting mate.” 

One of the guards took custody of Spock, pressing a phaser against his neck at the place where his spine joined his skull. 

“Captain,” Mirror Spock said. “We appear to be at an impasse. I propose a bargain.”

“Terms, Spock?”

“I will give the weakling Spock to you if you will give our chief medical officer to me, to be my mate and property in the eyes of Vulcan law.”

“Like hell--!” McCoy objected, furious.

“Shut up, Bones.” Kirk grinned at Spock. “I like the way you think-- but the Terran Empire won’t. It’s that pesky human exceptionalism prejudice we have, you know.”

“You have the latitude to discipline those under your command. The blame for this unauthorized incursion into the weakling universe may surely be laid at McCoy’s feet. Obviously he intended to retrieve sufficient alternate crewmembers to challenge your authority-- the weaklings desire you to be removed from power; the other Kirk’s attempt to convince me to do so has been recorded on the transporter room log tapes. The penalty will seem quite logical in light of that evidence,” the alternate Spock explained.

“You evil pointy-eared sonofabitch,” the duplicate McCoy hissed at his Spock. “I’ll cut your fucking throat, I swear to God--” his face transfigured with wrath, seeming almost inhuman; Spock realized his missing eye had been replaced with a cybernetic unit. The growing light glinted off the durasteel rim of his mechanical eye. 

Not for the first time, it occurred to Spock to theorize that his counterpart was insane to want this man in his bed… but this was not the time or place to discuss that.

“The time of interphase is approaching rapidly, captain,” Mirror Spock pointed out. “What is your decision?”

Kirk’s phaser had already moved, pointing toward McCoy, who sputtered in helpless fury.

“You’ve forfeited your freedom,” Kirk said, his voice turning steely. “You shouldn’t have trusted me, doctor.” He stepped forward, seizing McCoy’s arm, and gave him a shove toward the nest. 

Leonard stumbled toward the two Spocks, catching himself with one hand on the ground, eyes wild, teeth bared in a snarl. Kirk followed, chuckling. “Didn’t think that far, did you? Always remember your allies might negotiate a better deal behind your back, doctor, and leave yourself a way out. But it’s too late for that, now. There won’t be any back doors where you’re going. Spock’s too smart to leave you any room for escape.” He stepped in to push McCoy again.

The doctor snatched a knife from his boot and lashed out, catching Kirk in the side; a phaser whined, and the captain’s scream choked off. “Bones….” he clutched at McCoy, face going slack with disbelief. “Sp--” He fell.

McCoy wiped his blade on the captain’s sash. “You’re right,” he rasped at the corpse. “There’s no beating a Vulcan.”

“Well done, doctor.” Spock looked on in shock as his counterpart released his captive and stepped forward to examine the mirror version of McCoy. “A most logical choice.”

Spock felt the gun drop away from his own neck; giving his guard a cautious look, he stepped to Leonard’s side and the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, eyeing the others warily. 

“Your captain made extremely persuasive logical arguments regarding the inefficiency of the Terran Empire and its methods, Commander.” The alternate Spock finished examining his universe’s McCoy, apparently satisfied he had suffered no damage. “When Marlena Moreau maintained her loyalty to our captain, I theorized the Tantalus Device would not function to protect him across dimensional borders. It appears I was correct.”

“It’s a pity the captain betrayed me,” the duplicate McCoy’s humorless grin stretched wide. “It would’ve been sweet fucking with you.” His gaze knifed at Spock, then moved away, dismissing him in favor of his own Spock. “Commander. My official autopsy will report the weaklings saw an opening, and together, they exploited it.” He tossed his knife toward them, and it fell gleaming into the dust at Leonard’s feet. 

“Indeed.” The alternate Spock summoned his men with a nod; one of them picked up Kirk’s body and hoisted it over his shoulder.

“Come, doctor.” The duplicate Spock’s voice betrayed warmth, almost… fondness; he extended two fingers toward McCoy. “Together you and I will reform the Empire.”

“Conquer it, you mean.” McCoy laughed and touched fingers with him, stepping up to stand at his side.

"Activate auxiliary power reserves, Mr. Scott. Six to beam up." 

Spock could hear the whine of engines as the shuttlecraft made atmosphere; they would arrive in moments. But the whine was drowned by the ringing of a transporter beam, and the entire mirror contingent evaporated in whirling light, leaving him and his own doctor standing there to meet the reinforcements alone.

“What the hell happened here?” Jim Kirk jumped from the lead shuttle as soon as the door opened. “Our scanners read several Vulcanoids-- and a transporter signature. I was afraid you’d be gone by the time we--” He eyed them warily. “Queen to king’s rook five.”

“Pawn to queen’s knight four,” Spock and McCoy chorused, and Spock turned to McCoy, blinking approval; the doctor merely smirked and winked at him. 

“Several persons from the alternate universe came here to engage in an elaborate kidnapping attempt turned political double-cross that resulted in the betrayal and destruction of the alternate Captain Kirk. Commander Spock stated his intention to return and reform the Terran Empire,” Spock summarized neatly, recovering his composure. “We will write a full report as rapidly as possible.” He turned to regard the doctor. “But for now, we have a mission to complete. Doubtless the Myriapodans will waken and emerge shortly, prepared to resume our negotiations.”

“It’s too bad my double had to die.” A shadow clouded Jim’s face at the thought of it; he chewed his lip for a moment. “But yes. I’ll want that report right away, Mr. Spock.” 

“Scott to Kirk. The transporter interference has dissipated, sir. Do you still need transporter services?”

“Not any more, Scotty.” Kirk turned back toward the shuttle. “I’ll leave a detachment of security men planetside in case anyone from the other dimension should return.”

“A prudent choice.” Spock turned to McCoy; he could hear the Myriapodans beginning to waken and hum as the rising sunlight finally topped the nearby mountains and soft shafts of golden light fell on the nest, warming it. 

McCoy lowered his voice for Spock’s ears only. “If events in this universe really are influenced by what happens in that damned hell-pit, then Jim’s--”

“In retrospect, I believe my duplicate made that claim solely for psychological purposes. He hoped it would exert a strong persuasive effect on his version of you, doctor.” Spock said softly. “Our own captain should be in little danger of betrayal and death from our hands.”

McCoy sagged with relief. “I sure hope you’re right, Spock.” He frowned at the place in the dust where the captain’s duplicate had collapsed. “That was damned hard to watch.”

“Indeed. And there is an additional correlated complication: I cannot offer you an empire to keep you at my side,” Spock said, and though it was quite illogical, he held his breath as he awaited Leonard’s response. 

“That’s all right. I don’t want anything more than what I have.” McCoy gave him a lopsided, sheepish grin.

“Admirably logical,” Spock said, and allowed himself the smallest smile.

Together, they turned to greet the Myriapodans as they began to wander up from their nest.


End file.
